


Twenty First Century Blues

by thepinupchemist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chaptered, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, Family, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, Human Gabriel, Legal Guardian Dean, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Parent Dean, Responsibility, Self Confidence Issues, Sex Work, Stripper Dean, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Teacher Castiel, Teenage Sam, english teacher castiel, gory bits, mentions of child abuse, not slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepinupchemist/pseuds/thepinupchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Winchester dies, Dean and Sam pack up their lives in Lawrence and make a new home in Sioux Falls. Despite a rough start, both brothers find love in unexpected places, and for once it feels like life might be going right for the Winchesters.</p><p>Then one of Sam's classmates turns up dead, and everything falls to pieces. The people of Sioux Falls start to suspect the new arrivals -- and as more bodies turn up, the suspicion only grows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scuzz-Fuzz Neighborhood

**Author's Note:**

> New chapter fic, yay! I should note that this story will follow Sam, Dean and Castiel fairly equally, and the Sam/Jess plot will be pretty prominent. Thus far I can't think of any warnings, but if something comes up, the fic will be appropriately tagged and I'll make a note of it.
> 
> The title comes from Things I Like to Do by Scorpio Loon.

**Chapter Track: Things I Like To Do – Scorpio Loon**

**_Scuzz-Fuzz Neighborhood_ **

Sam hates literally everything about this town. He and Dean have been here three days already and nothing has given him hope for the future of their new home. Their apartment is small and shitty and seems even smaller and shittier with all the boxes that crammed inside, stacked on top of one another and half-open.

Dean is already at one of his new jobs, so Sam has to ride his bike to his new high school. The ride is a little over twenty minutes, and it pisses him off that he has to do it. He knows that Dean is trying. He gets that. But he doesn’t understand why they couldn’t just stay back in Lawrence, where they belong.

But no, they need “a fresh start” or whatever the hell. More accurately, it’s Dean that needs the fresh start. Sam guesses it bothers Dean to stay in the house because Dean was the one that saw their mom die right on the driveway. Or maybe because the hospital he’d have to pass to drop Sam off at his old school reminds him how their dad slowly wasted away ‘cause he poisoned his own liver with liquor.

He doesn’t want to begrudge Dean that fresh start, but it’s hard when they moved from a nice house in a decent neighborhood to a cramped apartment building, when Sam has to start at a new school only weeks into his senior year instead of finishing up at the school that he’s already spent three years at, when he has no friends and no place in this weird new town.

Sam dismounts in front of Thomas Jefferson High School with a sigh and rolls his bike into the rack near the sidewalk winding up toward the front doors. He chains it up before he frowns over at the plain, stately brick building in front of him. It’s a little newer than his school in Lawrence was, the bricks brighter and the architecture sharper and more modern.

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters, and pushes his way past other students to march dutifully into the building.

He’s supposed head to the front office before he does anything else to pick up paperwork and his locker number, and apparently there’s some stupid _student ambassador_ to give him a tour during the first period of the day. He finds the office fairly easily and approaches the desk like it’s a death sentence.

“Hey sweetie, what can I help you with?” asks the lady behind the front desk. She’s smiling at him and he feels annoyed, even though she seems perfectly pleasant.

God, he hates this place.

“Uh,” he says, “I’m new? I’m Sam Winchester. I’m supposed to come to the office.”

“Ooh!” she says, and stands up, “Just let me print out your things and I’ll go grab Jessica for you. She’ll be showing you the ropes here at Thomas Jefferson. Go ahead and have a seat.” She winks at him, and Sam’s shoulders sink lower. He turns and slides his backpack off of his shoulders and slumps into one of the seats, deflated.

And then he turns his head.

That is the exact moment that he takes back every argument that he’s had with Dean about the move and every resentment he’s lingered on for the past months.

“Hi, you must be Sam,” she says, and extends a hand, “I’m Jess.”

“Uh,” Sam manages.

Jesus Christ. Jess’ wavy blond hair is pulled into two braids on either side of her head. A pair of tortoise shell-colored glasses sits on her nose, right above the prettiest smile that he has ever seen in his life, and she’s wearing a t-shirt with the cover of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ printed on the front of it.

Sam doesn’t even realize that he’s staring until she asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says a little breathlessly, and grabs his backpack off of the seat, “So, um, I guess you’re showing me around?”

“In a second,” she says, “We have to wait for Ms. Barnes to bring your paperwork.”

“Oh,” he says, “Right.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and he doesn’t want it. He wants to know everything about her, and the only way he can do that is talk. _Talk, you idiot_ , he tells himself, and so Sam sputters out, “I like your shirt.”

Jess glances down and half-smiles, “Thanks. You like to read?”

“Yeah,” he says, “I love to read. My brother makes fun of me, but I’m pretty sure the longest thing he’s ever read is the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated.”

Jess laughs.

That is an awesome sound.

She asks, “And what do your parents think of that?”

And the feeling is gone.

Sam replies, “Uh, it’s just me and my brother.”

Stricken, Jess says, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“It’s okay,” Sam assures her, “I’m kinda used to it. My brother dragged me out here to start over or something, so that’s what we’re trying to do. I mean, it sucks a little, ‘cause now all we’ve got is this tiny apartment and each other and he has to work his ass off just to keep that because our dad took out a second mortgage on the house and gambled all the money off and – wow, sorry. I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this crap. I guess I got carried away.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, “I can totally be your person to talk to. You know, if you want to.”

Before Sam can respond, Ms. Barnes returns and says, “Okay, kiddos, I’ve got all your info here. I’ve already marked your first period absences as excused in the system, so you’re good to go.”

“Awesome,” Jess says. She takes the papers, and adds, “Thanks, Ms. Barnes.”

“I told you, call me Pam,” she says.

Jess rolls her eyes and replies, “The day you stop calling me Jessica.”

Outside the office, the bulk of the student body has filed into classes, leaving a quieter, emptier building than before. There are a few kids here and there, probably on their off-periods, some with books in their laps, while others laugh and snack and joke around. Sam feels a tinge of jealousy at the latter – he has nobody to joke around and laugh with at school anymore.

Their first stop is Sam’s locker, where he puts in the combo listed underneath his schedule and dumps the bulk of the contents of his backpack before they move on. He thought that the tour of the school would be boring, led by some boring schmo with a boring voice and boring hobbies. Jess is none of that. She’s not perky, per se, but she has this energy that Sam can’t help but take on himself, smiling as she pulls him from department to department.

He’s actually disappointed when Jess checks her phone and says, “Whoa, looks like our time is almost up. That was quick, man. Hey, you have a number you could put in here?” She shakes her phone for emphasis.

Sam hopes that his, “Yeah, sure!” doesn’t sound as desperate as he thinks that it might. He takes her cell and punches in the digits of his phone number, and, in case she has another Sam in her phone, he adds a smiley face at the end.

“Cool,” she grins at him, “I’ll text you so you have mine too. You good to go on where your classes are?”

“Yeah, thanks to you,” Sam says.

Jess says, “Just doing my duty. See you around, Sam.”

“See you,” he says back, and waves a little as she walks away.

His second period class is his AP Lit class, and jeez, he hopes it’s not too different than the class he was taking in Lawrence, because AP is hell to have to catch up on. He hustles down the hallway and into the math department that Jess showed him earlier, glancing at classroom doors until he finds number _202_ on the opposite end of the hall.

When Sam walks in, his teacher looks up and says, “Ah, you must be Sam.”

“That’s me,” he says.

“I’m Mr. Novak,” he says, and holds out a hand.

Sam shakes it. Mr. Novak’s grip is firm and he has a serious face, but he looks pretty young. He can only really be a few years older than Dean at most. Young teachers are so hit and miss – he hopes that Mr. Novak is one of the good ones, and not the kind of young teacher that bumbles through everything so much that he may as well have ditched the class and read the textbook instead of taken the class.

“It’s good to have you,” Mr. Novak says, and points at the back of the classroom, “I believe there’s an open seat beside Miss Waites in the last row.”

“Thanks,” Sam says.

Miss Waites, it turns out, is an extremely attractive dark-haired girl. She gives him a once-over with brow cocked when he sits down and says, “Hey, newbie. I’m Ruby.”

“Sam,” he says.

She smiles at him, and jeez, how come all the girls here are so pretty?

The rest of the day slips by without consequence, and Sam finds himself unlocking his bike from the rack outside the school in a far lighter mood than he was in when he put it there. The bike ride is pleasant instead of what felt like a ride to his execution. He’s even smiling when he chains up his bike outside the apartment building and heads for the stairs.

Sam and Dean live on the third floor, between this weird guy named Garth and what he thinks is a young married couple, though he and Dean haven’t met those two formally. He waves awkwardly to the dude-half of the married couple, this bulky guy that hasn’t seen a razor blade in at least a few days, before he sticks his key in the lock and lets himself in.

He doesn’t have a chance to call out and see if Dean’s around – there’s a loud _BARK_ and a blur of movement and Sam is pounded with like, eighty pounds of furry creature. He laughs as the mystery dog licks him and, after a solid minute of wrestling around, manages to get him – her? to sit.

“Sorry about that.”

Sam glances up in time to see Dean looking exasperated.

“Where’d he come from?” asks Sam, “Did a stray sneak in here?”

“No, uh,” Dean coughs, “That’s…um. Her name’s Daisy. She’s for you. Or I guess kind of both of us. I went and adopted her after work.”

Sam gapes. He looks from his worn-out older brother to what appears to be a Labrador mix of some kind sitting at his feet with her tail a wagging blur. He says, “Dean, man, you didn’t have to…”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, “Look. I know crap’s been rough and I know you didn’t want to haul ass out here, so I figured I owed you something that you wanted.”

“Dean, a dog is a real responsibility –”

“Yeah, thanks mom, I hadn’t considered that,” Dean testily replies, “Her food’s in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, she’s got her bowls set up nice next to the kitchen table and there’s a whole pile of toys kind of everywhere.”

“Can we even afford a dog?”

Dean lifts his chin at that and says, voice flat, “I budgeted.”

That probably means Dean gave up something that he wanted so that Sam could have a dog. He wants to argue and tell Dean that it was a stupid thing to do, but when he looks from Dean to Daisy and back again, two pairs of puppy eyes stare back, and Sam’s done for. His shoulders sag and he says, “It means a lot, dude.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t say I never did anything for you. Hey, check this out,” Dean says, “Daisy,” and points two fingers at her like a gun as he says the words, “Bang bang.”

Daisy flops onto her back, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She only moves when Dean says, “All right, good girl. You earned a treat.” Daisy hops up, and both she and Sam follow Dean into the kitchen, where he pulls a bag of bacon treats from one of the cupboards and tosses one to Daisy. She catches it mid-air.

“That’s so cool,” Sam says.

“Yeah, she’s got a few tricks up her sleeve. Fur. Whatever. Are you hungry? I can make some mac n’ cheese or something before I leave for work.”

Work, again. Dean’s other job. He doesn’t talk about his second job like he talks about his job at the diner. He’ll complain about the diner and tell stories about crazy patrons all day, but when Sam asks how his other job’s going, he usually just shrugs.

Whatever it is, Sam just hopes that it’s legal.

“Sure, sounds great,” he replies, and gets so wrapped up in playing with their new dog that he forgets to tell Dean all about his day at school, and how he’s already made two friends, both of whom are very, _very_ attractive girls.

Dean would get a kick out of that.

After they eat together in their new, much tinier kitchen, Dean glances at the time on his phone and mutters a curse. He says, “I hate to run, but it’s off to the salt mines. If you can, you think you could walk Daisy around the neighborhood some? The folks at the shelter said she needs to be walked a lot.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Sam says.

He watches as Dean hustles to his bedroom, emerging with boots laced on his feet and a duffel thrown over his shoulder. At the apartment door, he meets Sam’s eyes, gives him an easy grin, and says, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

And that’s a pretty easy request.

**X**

“For the final time, I told you _no_ ,” Castiel says, and almost literally puts his foot down. He manages to stop himself from stomping on the ground like a child, but his restraint does little to deter his colleagues.

“Cassie,” Balthazar says, all exasperation, “It’s your birthday. For once in your life, would you live a little?”

“It’s on us,” Gabriel adds, “and come on, what’s a better birthday present than liquor and strippers?”

“A night at home with a cup of tea and a book,” Castiel shoots back.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and Balthazar lets out a long-suffering sigh. Castiel knows that they think his hobbies are boring, the same way that he finds their hobbies anxiety-inducing. Going out in public around so many people and imbibing alcohol exhausts him to the bone, and he doesn’t want that on his birthday, thank you very much.

He almost tells them that he has papers to grade, but he knows both Balthazar and Gabriel will know he’s lying through his teeth. They’re barely into the new school year – there’s nothing yet to grade.

But they mean well.

And he hasn’t been out in…years? ever? Castiel isn’t sure. His last several birthdays have been spent at home reading or watching television, and usually at some odd hour he’ll get a phone call from his sister, which he’ll let go to voicemail and listen to when he wakes up in the morning. Anna’s glamorous life in Dubai is a far cry from his simple one in South Dakota.

Perhaps if he went out with Gabriel and Balthazar he’d actually have something to talk to Anna about when he calls her back the following night.

So Castiel heaves a weary breath and watches as his coworkers’ eyes light up. They know they’ve won, even before he says the words, “Fine. I’ll go.”

“That’s the spirit!” Balthazar says, and claps Castiel on the shoulder.

“I knew you’d come around,” Gabe grins.

Castiel tries not to worry if he’s made the wrong choice, but he worries anyway, worrying all the way back to his small suburban house and throughout the remainder of the afternoon. When the time approaches for Gabriel and Balthazar to pick him up, he decides that he should probably not go to a strip club in a button-down, dress slacks and vest, and changes into one of the two pairs of jeans that he owns, shucks the vest and undoes the top couple of buttons on his shirt.

Just as he slips into comfortable shoes, a horn sounds from his driveway. He tucks his wallet into his back pocket, locks his front door, and soon finds himself piled into a car with Balthazar, Gabriel, and a very loud series of Ke$ha songs.

He knows what strip club that they intend to take him to – Gabriel tended the bar at The Love Club to put himself through college, and still carries a flame for the club’s owner, Kali. Castiel has never been inside the establishment before, but from Gabriel’s (sometimes colorful) stories of the place, he’s gathered that The Love Club employs dancers both male and female, and this is probably why Gabriel is so comfortable asking him to go. His coworkers know that he leans toward men as far as sexual preferences go, although his experience with sex in general is limited.

On the outside, The Love Club looks like any other seedy club – minus the fact that the neon sign at the front proclaiming _GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!_ in pink is paired with a blue twin declaring _BOYS! BOYS! BOYS!_

The inside is far more luxurious than he expected. The décor takes inspiration from India, seating and walls colored and draped in red and gold and orange. It seems to mismatch the plain, somewhat sketchy outside.

The floor has three levels: two of seating and tables, and then the stage at the center of the club, where a V of golden-lit poles decked in scantily-clad dancers sits proudly. Gabriel grabs Castiel by the wrist and says, “Come on, birthday boy. I reserved the best seats just for us,” and proceeds to drag him down the sloping floor to the frontmost row of tables. They slide into seats surrounding a table with an ornate _Reserved_ sign at the center, which Gabriel pushes down so that it faces wrong-side up.

“See, what did I tell you?” Gabriel says.

“You truly do come through,” Balthazar smiles, relaxing back into the booth.

“And Castiel? What do you think?”

Castiel blinks over and says, “It’s…nice,” though he has yet to see anything that really interests him.

“Any gentlemen you’ve got your eye on?” Gabe asks, leaning forward with elbows propped on the table.

“Um,” Castiel says, “Not so far.”

Gabriel frowns, but the expression is fleeting. In the next moment, he slaps Castiel’s arm and ushers over a pretty cocktail waitress to order a round of drinks.

Castiel appreciates the effort that Gabriel is putting into trying to make his birthday exciting, but Castiel hasn’t seen, let alone met, anyone that’s sparked his interest since his early years at college. He sometimes doubts that he’ll ever find someone interesting to him again.

It figures that in the next second he would eat his own words.

The dancers switch out, many stepping onto the floor to greet patrons and potential private dance clients, and new dancers take the stage. Near the front, a _remarkable_ man with an easy, boyish smile and broad shoulders, clad in nothing but a black g-string and a cowboy hat. His mouth unhinges and he rushes to close it, but it’s too late.

He’s been figured out.

“Oh-ho-ho!” Gabriel exclaims, “Like ‘em in cowboy hats, huh?”

Blood rushes to Castiel’s face and he stammers, “He’s – ah. Very attractive, yes.”

He does _not_ like the twin expressions that his colleagues share from across the table.

But Castiel lets himself forget it, bringing his drink to his lips – some fruity drink that Gabriel recommended – and watching the man in the cowboy hat. On further inspection, he doesn’t seem quite as practiced or comfortable as many of the other dancers, but then, it isn’t the dancing that drew Castiel’s attention. It was his smile and his shoulders, which get better and better the longer that Castiel stares.

There are freckles on his shoulders.

They’re faint, and Castiel doubts anyone would notice them unless they were doing as he is: scrutinizing every detail of this man.

This makes him feel very stupid. Dancers are used to leering men staring at them with their tongues lolling out. Castiel isn’t any different just because he’s watching the dancer’s entire body instead of just his crotch.

Though that’s impressive too.

He finds himself disappointed when, several songs and drinks later, this group of dancers parts from the stage to make way for the dancers that were on the poles when Castiel first entered the club. He’s a little fuzzy from the alcohol that he’s been putting back and it’s starting to make him laugh at Gabriel’s bad jokes. Nobody should laugh at Gabriel’s bad jokes. And where the hell has Balthazar gone? Castiel swears he was here just a moment ago.

The question of Balthazar’s whereabouts is soon answered when he returns with a beer in one hand…and the cowboy-hatted stripper at his side. The bottom drops out of Castiel’s stomach when realizes that, _Jesus Christ_ , Gabriel and Balthazar have done something stupid like ordered a dance for him.

When the dancer leans over and grins only inches from Castiel’s face, he forgets to breathe. And when he says, “Hey there, birthday boy,” he feels the blood drain right out of his face.

**X**

Dean has not been in this business for very long at all, but he’s been dancing long enough to know that you shouldn’t look like you’ve seen the ghost of Christmas past when it’s your birthday and you have a stripper about to sit in your lap.

“Um,” the man fidgets, “Hello.”

“You’ll have to forgive him,” the guy’s English friend calls over the thrum of the music, “Castiel’s a bit shy.”

A twist of hesitation wrings his gut, but he still pulls this Castiel guy out of the booth half of the table and nudges him into a chair on the other side. Then Dean does the usual: he climbs up and sits directly on Castiel’s lap. He says, “Hey, Cas – can I call you Cas?”

Cas swallows and says so quietly that Dean wouldn’t be able to hear if he wasn’t right up against the guys nuts, “Yes, t-that’s fine.”

“Cas,” Dean says evenly, “If you don’t want this, you just say the word, all right? I know your buddies are trying to give you a nice birthday present, but sometimes a guy and his buddies have two different ideas of what’s fun.”

He can see the cogs turning in Castiel’s mind as he turns his wide-eyed, bespectacled gaze down from Dean’s face and to his own hands. Man, this dude is nothing like the other dances Dean has done so far. Usually clients are millimeters from groping him, and they look at him like he’s a slice of homemade cherry pie. Cas, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds from bolting and locking himself in a stall in the men’s restroom.

“Hey, man,” Dean says, and he does something that he hasn’t done before – he touches his client, cupping his stubbly jaw and lifting his chin so that he’ll look him in the eye, “It’s okay.”

Something about that reassurance works, because he feels Cas relax underneath him, and some of the nervousness melt away from his face. The tip of Cas’ tongue darts out to wet his lips and, damn it, it’s kind of hot. The guy is actually kind of freaking hot.

So Dean’s kind of happy when Cas finally nods his head and says, “Okay. You can, um. Dance.”

The timing of the agreement is impeccable. A new song starts with a quick beat and the singer’s voice at a high pitch. Dean sways his hips from side to side and keeps the dance distant at first. Cas sits patiently and politely and is staring at his _face_ , so Dean does the other thing that he hasn’t let happen so far. He says, a little breathless, “You can put your hands on my waist. If you want.”

Cas goes doe-eyed at the suggestion but his hands twitch, so Dean reaches down and brings them up, settling Castiel’s palms on his sides. He asks, “You good?”

“Very,” Castiel says, and promptly blushes.

Dean pumps his body closer to Cas and leans down with a little smile. Usually he goes for a cocky smirk, but for whatever reason, he thinks a smirk would make this guy turn tail and run. He keeps his face only inches from his client’s, and asks, “How old you turnin’?”

“Ah…twenty five,” Castiel answers.

And the guy is nervous about strip clubs? Sheesh.

But hey, it’s kind of a nice change. Cas keeps his hands right where Dean put them and never tries to reach further down south. Sometimes his eyes drift down, but for the most part, the guy seems interested in looking at Dean’s face. He’s not sure if that should make him uncomfortable or not.

Castiel’s friends paid for a twenty minute dance, so it’s kind of awkward not to talk at all. Well. Sometimes it’s okay, but he thinks Cas would prefer if Dean kept up the conversation so he has something to concentrate on that isn’t a mostly-naked, sweaty stripper in his lap.

“So, what d’you do?”

“I’m a teacher,” Castiel says.

“That’s cool,” he says. It’s kind of endearing, actually, “What age?”

“High school,” he replies.

“You brave man,” Dean chuckles.

“I’m fairly certain that you are braver,” Castiel says.

Dean actually quiets at that. He does not blush. He _doesn’t._ Dean clears his throat and says, “I do this, mostly. And work at a diner during the day.”

“That’s a lot of work,” says Castiel, a hitch forming between his brows.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean says, “but it’s just me n’ my brother, and like hell I’m letting child services take him.”

When Dean realizes what he’s said, he forgets to dance for a moment. He coughs and says, “Man, I’m sorry. I don’t usually spill my guts out to clients when I’m sitting in their laps. Or ever. At all. I hope I didn’t ruin the mood.” What the hell, right? Dean won’t even talk to Sam about personal shit, and now he’s handing his tale of woe out to strangers while he gives them a lap dance?

Jesus Christ.

“That’s all right,” Castiel says, “I wonder that kind of thing, anyway. About how people came to be at the exact place that they’re in at an exact moment,” he pauses before he adds, “I apologize. That sounds stupid.”

“No, dude, you’re cool,” Dean says, “I think that’s pretty awesome.”

He hardly notices that twenty minutes have passed until he glances up at sees his boss with one brow cocked. Dean casts Kali a sheepish smile and says to Cas, “Looks like the time’s up. But, uh. It was good to meet you, Cas.”

“Good to meet you too,” Castiel replies.

Dean slides off of his lap, and on an impulse, he presses a second-long kiss to Cas’ cheek, winks, and walks back to see if he’s got any other interested clients lined up for dances.

It’s nearly three in the morning by the time that Dean arrives home to their new, small apartment. He stubs his toe on a box on the way in and curses as he flips on the light. Sam’s in bed, which isn’t surprising. He always did like getting his beauty rest on school nights, even when he resents being dragged to a new school.

There’s a shuffle of noise and the creak of a door, and from Sam’s room, Daisy emerges. She wags her tail and Dean ducks down to give her a scratch behind the ears. He didn’t think that he wanted a dog, but…it’s kind of hard to say no to a face like that.

She tails him as he slides his duffel off of his shoulder and pads into the kitchen. They don’t really have that much in their fridge so far – just a half-drunk six pack of beer, a couple of prepackaged salads that Sam likes for some ungodly reason, and some deli meat and cheese. The latter two would be useful if they had any bread, but Dean used it this morning to make a breakfast sandwich before running to work at the diner.

So Dean settles for a box of Cheez-its, eating a few handfuls before he decides that he’s too tired for shitty food and just heads to bed. Daisy peers at him when he ducks into his bedroom, but turns and heads for Sam. And that’s good. The dog is for Sam, so he has at least one friend in Sioux Falls.

He wonders, as he has wondered over and over for the duration of the move, if he’s made the right choice. Sam didn’t want to be uprooted, and he knows that. He knew it when he made the decision. Thing is, their dad left them so far in the hole moneywise that there was no way the pittance of his life insurance could cover the damage. Either in Lawrence or here, Dean would still be working his ass off.

At least here he doesn’t have people to give him pitying looks and he isn't living in a house full of ghosts. And they’re far less in debt than they were. He knows that Sam knows about that part, but Dean doesn’t think that his little brother really gets it. Money really is what makes the world go ‘round. Folks can say that money won’t buy a guy happiness all they’d like, but Dean knows that he’d be happier if he just had enough money not to worry about Sam being taken away from him and having to live on the streets.

He doesn’t need to be a rich man, but he’d like it if he and Sam weren’t broke.

Dean slips his t-shirt and jeans off and throws them in the pile of dirty laundry that’s grown in the corner of his bedroom. He hasn’t bothered putting together his bed frame together yet, so all he’s got is a mattress lazily fitted with the first bedding that he could find in the freaking tons of boxes that they’ve got.

When he crawls underneath the covers, Dean hopes that he’ll be able to fall asleep. He hasn’t slept for shit since they moved here, too bothered by the thoughts of how he’s gonna pay the bills, how he’s gonna keep Sam, and God, how he’s gonna get Sam through his last year of high school without scarring him for life.

He’s not just Sam’s brother anymore, he’s Sam’s _guardian_. He’s kind of been in charge of Sam a lot since their mom died, but now with dad gone, it’s legal.

Dean curls into himself and finds himself silently praying that they will make it through this.


	2. The Darkness There in Their Eyes

**Chapter Track: Saint Joe on a School Bus – Marcy Playground**

**_The Darkness There in Their Minds_ **

Like every morning since the move, Dean’s day begins with his cellphone alarm blaring in his ear and a deep desire to pull his blankets up over his head and pretend the world outside of his bed doesn’t exist. And, as he always has to, he rolls off of his mattress by the time that he’s snoozed the alarm twice and runs the risk of arriving late to his gig at the diner.

He pulls on his work things – lightweight, casual clothes that making moving around in the diner kitchen simpler – and forces himself out to the common area of the apartment. Caffeine-wise, all they’ve got right now is shitty instant coffee, which he resigns himself to mixing into a microwave-heated mug of tap water and drinks while he combs out his hair and laces his shoes onto his feet.

The diner job wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t have a shitty boss. Zachariah is a real piece a’ work, a giant dick in a suit that hangs around all day and micromanages the shit out of all his employees. He’s already chewed Dean out twice for ‘daydreaming’ or whatever the fuck. Damn, if Dean bothered daydreaming at work, he’d find something better to think about than finances and the hope that he’ll unpack a few boxes in between the end of the his diner shift and the start at the strip joint.

It’d be nice if he could find a damn job that paid him enough. He’d like it if he could have one, solid job. But nah, there ain’t many folks out there that trust a high school dropout. All Dean’s got to speak for his work ethic is his GED and his give ‘em hell attitude, and that’s not exactly the kind of thing you want listed on your resume.

Dean gets in a quick brush and rinse before he grabs his keys and runs. The sight of the Impala in the apartment complex parking lot cheers him up a little. They gave up a hell of a lot when they moved, and even before that as they tried to pay off what they could of their dad’s debts, but Dean refused to relinquish his baby. She’s the one thing that he’s keeping for himself.

Sam never tried to argue with the decision, and Dean appreciates that.

Little Angel Diner sits on a street corner, sharing the block with an ugly concrete strip mall and roads in dire need of repair. Dean weaves his way past the two most prominent potholes that mark the entrance into the parking lot and puts the Impala into park a couple spaces down from the duo of dumpsters at the back of the restaurant.

“Hey, Dean,” greets Jody, one of the usual morning shift waitresses.

“Mornin’ Jody,” he says, and affords her a little smile. He likes her more than just about anybody else that works here. She’s down to earth and good-natured, and if he messes up as he’s prone to do she takes it in stride and teaches him how not to screw it up next time.

To most of the other folks, Dean’s like an irritating child for not catching onto everything the instant that he steps in the door.

“How’s the move going?” she asks.

Dean shrugs his apron over his head and starts up all the coffee for the morning rush crowd as he answers, “Not really going at all. Crawled into bed after work. Sam might’ve unpacked something but the place still looks like a friggin’ wreck.”

“You’ll get there,” she reassures him, and Dean hopes to hell that she’s right.

So far, it just feels like he’s been getting everything wrong. The first time that Dean’s seen Sam smile is when Daisy charged him for the first time.

Dean can’t decide whether or not it’s a good thing that his shift is so busy that he doesn’t have time to dwell on whether or not he’s doing a decent job of making his brother happy.  He has so many orders to fill that he feels like a Dr. Seuss caricature balancing plates of greasy breakfast foods with his fraying sanity.

By the time that he starts his drive home, he feels like shit. He’s working the club tonight too, which makes his day at least twenty times worse. Knowing his day is only half-over and that the second part of it would include getting naked for bachelorette parties and lonely men makes him tired. It’s not like he begrudges them their good time – it’s how he rakes in most of his income, after all – but some nights he wishes that he had something better. No one ever expected Dean to chase dreams the way people expected it of Sam, unless you count his mom, and she died too early on to make her support mean anything.

You can’t run after pipe dreams when your mom’s dead and your dad’s a liquored-up gambling man twenty-four-seven. Especially when you’ve got a little brother to take care of, you just can’t.

When Dean parks in the apartment lot, trudges up to their new place, and opens the door, Sam is already home from school. He and Daisy are wrestling around with a rope toy on the small space of carpet they call their “living room,” where they set up the Goodwill sofa and the entertainment shit. Dean notices that more of the boxes have disappeared and knows that he isn’t the one behind doing that work. He promptly feels guilty for putting that work all on Sammy’s shoulders.

“Hey, kid,” he says, tossing the car keys onto the kitchen counter. Both Daisy and Sam shift their attention to where Dean stands just in front of the apartment door. Daisy bounds over to him with tail wagging, but Sam frowns.

“You okay?” he asks, climbing onto his feet. His jeans are a little short in the leg…again. They’ll have to find Sam some new jeans. In theory it sounds simple, but in practice it’s a freaking circus trying to find pants for a skinny dude that’s mostly legs.

Dean scratches the back of his neck and gruffly says, “Fine. Just need a beer and a nap. And a shower. I think I smell like hamburger meat.”

“You kinda do,” Sam says, “Are you sure that you’re all right?”

“Yup,” Dean says, and pulls the second to last beer out of the fridge. He doesn’t elaborate on his “yup”, just grabs his keys and pops off the top of his beer with the bottle opener keychain before he steps into the bathroom. There’s another thing that’s small. It has one tiny sink with one tiny cabinet, across from a tiny bathtub/shower combo whose water pressure leaves much to be desired.

He sheds his clothes and leaves them on the linoleum floor, taking his beer with him to turn on the water and give himself a quick scrub. Between sips of his beer, he shampoos and soaps, and he thinks about Sam asking after him. If Sam can tell Dean’s a mess, then he’s gotta look bad. Sam may be a genius, but when it comes to reading people, he’s not exactly tip-top. Dean needs to step up his game big time, needs to be better at sticking a smile on his face if only for his brother’s sake.

As soon as Dean is squeaky clean and toweled dry, he collapses onto his mattress face first, butt-naked, and more than ready for a nap. Like any time that he sleeps, it’s a fitful, restless sleep, but he figures it’s better than nothing. At least he’s trying.

When Dean stumbles out of his bedroom in a pair of boxers and a bathrobe, Sam is at the kitchen table with his books out, scribbling away in one of his notebooks. He glances up when he hears Dean and says, “My history class is doing this trip to the museum. I have the permission form.”

Sam brandishes a neon-colored paper and Dean takes it. _The fee for the trip is $30.00 and all students must bring a packed lunch._

“I don’t have to go,” Sam rushes to say.

“Shut up,” Dean says, “You’ll go on your friggin’ trip. I gotta get ready for work, but when do you need the thirty bucks?”

“By the end of the week,” Sam says.

All right. Okay. He can manage that.

“Cool. We can talk about it tomorrow, ‘kay?”

Sam mumbles his assent, which Dean takes as a signal that he’s free to return to his bedroom and throw together his things for the night. Lisa, one of the other dancers, texted him to tell him that it’s going to be a theme night – Angels and Demons – so Dean should show up as one or the other. His costume is limited to a pair of plastic devil horns glued on a headband and a red g-string that leaves just about nothing to the imagination.

“See you later,” Dean says at the door, duffel slung over his shoulder.

“Have a good day – night? – at work, dude,” Sam says back.

As Dean treads down to the parking lot and slides into the front seat of the Impala, he wonders whether or not he can pull together thirty bucks in tips tonight. It’s a weekday, and those are always slower than weekends. You get some regulars, but mostly it’s quiet. Thirty bucks shouldn’t be hard, though, right?

**X**

As he does every weekday, Castiel wakes to the tune of his cellphone alarm at forty five minutes past four in the morning. He sighs and pulls himself into a sitting position on his mattress, rubbing his eyes before he shuffles to his chest of drawers and pulls out a worn t-shirt and pair of basketball shorts to run in. Sometimes he considers sleeping in, but he finds that his early morning runs charge his batteries far better than an extra stretch of sleep can.

Outside, Sioux Falls’ dawn reveals the beginnings of autumn in dim, purple-pink light. The edges of trees are withering to yellows and golds and bright reds, some bold leaves already fallen and browned in the still-green lawns of his modest suburban neighborhood. The calm of the early morning makes up at least half of his motivation to wake at “an obscene hour” – or so Gabriel says. Few cars roam the roads and houses remain dark.

The quiet gives him space to think that his job and evenings can’t afford him, times when the world is alive and buzzing with the activity of thousands of people. All that he can hear now are his running shoes crunching against the road, the beat of his breath and the pound of blood in his ears.

Castiel circles the neighborhood a few times before he winds back down, ending his jog with a stretch on his porch. There are lights on in the windows of the surrounding houses, now, and the rest of the world is waking up.

Inside, he sets his coffee maker to brew him a pot while he dips into his bathroom for a quick shower. The water hardly has time to warm before he shampoos, soaps, rinses and steps back out. In his bedroom, he towels himself dry and slips into the clothing that he ironed and laid out for himself the night before: a plain, eggshell-blue button-down, gray slacks and a black tie that his sister sent him for Christmas one year, printed with rules of grammar. He thinks the gift was meant to be funny, but he actually loves it.

Dressed with hair damp, Castiel returns to the kitchen to pour himself a mug of coffee from the pot and a bowl of cold cereal. He drinks and eats while he reads his book, and the next time that he glances up at the clock on his microwave, it’s time to head to work. He places his dishes in the sink, pours what remains of the pot of coffee into a to-go cup, and sticks his book into his laptop bag, which he slings over his shoulder before heading out to his car.

On the drive to Thomas Jefferson, his mind drifts to the stripper at the club in the cowboy hat. He frowns at the thought, but can’t stop thinking anyway. The man had a pleasant face. And a pleasant body. And pleasant…other things. Castiel wonders if it’s crazy to consider returning to The Love Club without Gabriel and Balthazar in tow –

“Of course it’s crazy,” he mutters to himself, coming to a stop at a light, behind a truck with the paint peeling from the bed.

That poor man probably has a bounty of people that return just to see him, that have it in their heads that they’re somehow different than the average client of the club. And it irks him that he has somehow, in a matter of hours, changed his own nature and become something far creepier than he ever wanted to be.

Castiel parks in the spaces designated for teachers when he arrives at the school. He’ll be grateful when the bell rings and he can finally get to work. It will be good for him to take his mind off of this stripper character, with faint freckles on his shoulders and across his nose, and very nice green eyes.

For fuck’s sake.

“Earth to Castiel!”

Castiel turns and sees Gabriel waving a hand in front of his face, a mug of coffee of his own tucked into his grip. He asks, “You okay there, space cadet?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Fine,” he says.

“Maybe if you stopped waking up at ungodly hours of the day, you wouldn’t have to put back so much coffee,” Gabe suggests, and chooses that moment to sip at the edge of his own, watery teachers’ lounge coffee.

“I like running,” he says, “I’m not tired, Gabriel. I just – ah. Nevermind.”

“No, no, go on,” Gabriel says.

Castiel rolls his eyes. He says, “I don’t know. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Why?” asks Gabe, brows lifting high on his broad forehead.

“I keep thinking about going back to that stupid club,” he says, “I liked that man in the cowboy hat and it’s ridiculous. He’s paid to make me like him. I know that, and it does nothing to stop me from wanting to return.” He barely stops himself from saying the words _he was nice to me_ , because that would make Castiel sound doubly absurd.

The expression on Gabriel’s face confirms every fear that Castiel harbors about this problem. He looks like he wants to tease Castiel but clearly is holding back, face suspended in surprise as he tries to come up with a response. Castiel sighs and says, “You don’t have to tell me I’m being an idiot. I already know that.”

“Maybe it’s a sign,” Gabe shrugs, “Maybe you should try to get out and date.”

“I hate going out. I find it stressful.”

“Then sign up for OK Cupid or something,” says Gabriel, “There are other lonely recluses in the world. At least, I’m pretty sure there are. The only one I’ve ever met is you.”

“I don’t want to sign up for a dating website,” Castiel says, “and I’m not – hm.” He is lonely, maybe. And perhaps he _is_ a little reclusive.

That’s depressing. Castiel diverts the conversation by saying, “I’m going to get ready for my classes.”

“Castiel –”

“Don’t,” he says, and ducks out of the teacher’s lounge, fleeing as fast as he can to the safety of his classroom.

When the bell rings and the time comes to start work, Castiel is grateful. He doesn’t even mind dealing with the more unruly of his charges. He finds between classes that he hopes Ruby Waites will cause some kind of ruckus so that he has something to focus on that isn’t a boyish smile and bare skin. Damn, damn, damn, damn.

But Ruby doesn’t get up to any sort of shenanigans, instead slouching in her desk and paying attention to his lecture with a sort of mild boredom written across her face. Of his students in the class, he’s surprised to find that the one engaged in the most misbehavior is Sam Winchester: asleep at his desk, face down with his mouth ajar.

Though new to the school, Sam doesn’t strike Castiel as a problem student. He turns his work in on time and the quality of his assignments is excellent. He’s bright, though a little quieter than the rest of his peers. Castiel understands that. He was always that teenager throughout his own high school experience, reserved and intelligent.

When class ends, Castiel coughs and says, “Sam, could I speak to you for a moment?” as he passes by with his books tucked under his arm.

Sam licks his lips and says, “I’m really sorry I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

“It’s all right,” Castiel says, and holds up a hand, “I’m not worried about the quality of your work suffering from one nap during one class period. I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay. You don’t seem like the kind of student that dismisses his responsibilities.”

An uncomfortable looks crosses Sam’s face. He shuffles around and chews on his lip before he says, “I’m just, uh. I guess I’m kinda worried about my brother. It’s just us, y’know, and he’s working so hard and I just…he’s always tired, and he never wants me to help. I just want him to let me help.”

Castiel frowns. He folds his arms over his chest and says, “It sounds like he’s doing all that work for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says, “That’s the problem. Do you know how much it sucks to know that your brother is working himself to death just so you’ll be kind of okay? I don’t like it.”

“I think that perhaps the best way to thank your brother for his work is to take what he gives you,” Castiel gently suggests, “That way all his trouble doesn’t go to waste.”

Sam heaves a breath and says, “I guess…maybe you’re right. He’s just so – I don’t know. Messed up. And he thinks I don’t know, but it’s kind of hard not to notice.”

“Perhaps…” Castiel starts, and then pauses. He doesn’t typically let people in on his personal life, but it does frustrate him that one of his best students has been saddled with such a difficult situation. So he says, “When I was growing up, my life at home wasn’t the easiest. My parents were poor and the problem became triplicate when my father left us. My mother worked very, very hard to do what she could for my sister and me, and it took a great deal of coaxing to get her to allow us to help where we could. But we did speak to her, so maybe that’s what you have to do with your brother. Tell him that you’re worried.”

“I’ve tried,” Sam replies, “But he doesn’t listen. Dean – he’s stubborn. And he doesn’t like talking about things that he thinks make him sound ‘weak’, or whatever.”

“Just give it some thought,” Castiel says, “I don’t want to make you late for your next class.”

“Okay, um, thanks,” Sam says, and he starts for the door.

“And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“If you need somebody to confide in, I will always be here,” Castiel says, “and I check my e-mail frequently, if you need to talk when you’re not at school.”

The ghost of a smile lifts one corner of Sam’s mouth and he says, “Thanks, Mr. Novak. That’s pretty cool of you.” And with that, Sam slips out of the classroom, the door closing with a definitive _snick_ behind him.

The remainder of the school day flies by in a blur of hormone-filled, teenage students and filling the breaks between his classes with grading assignments. He shouldn’t have assigned his classes more homework simply so he’d have something to occupy his mind with in the coming days, but Castiel did it anyway. He’d never give them more than they could handle, or so he hopes.

He stays late to finish his work grading the pop quizzes from his freshman-level English courses on _Lord of the Flies_ , past the sun sinking down over the neighborhoods surrounding the high school, their roofs backlit through the wide window at the right side of his classroom. It’s only when he truly does run out of work to do that he packs his things back into his laptop bag and heads out to his car.

Castiel makes a pit stop at the grocery store to pick up some supplies for dinner. Putting together a home-cooked meal should also draw his mind away from thoughts of vivacious strippers and the anxiety that creeps up the back of his neck at the mere thought of filling out an online dating profile in his lonely desperation for some kind of human contact – preferably contact that isn’t a lap dance that his coworkers paid for him to receive.

But still, after Castiel returns home with bags of vegetables and herbs to make cream of potato soup and starts working in his modest kitchen, he wonders what it would be like to have a partner to cook for. His house isn’t large in general, but it is large for just one man.

In his irritation, he hooks his cellphone up to his speakers to play music throughout the house, but it still seems too quiet. Castiel likes his quiet most nights, but this must be one of the odd ones. His odd nights have him thinking of a faceless man at his kitchen table, smiling and laughing while Castiel cooks. Or maybe Castiel is the one at the kitchen table smiling and laughing, and his faceless partner is the one hovered over the stove.

Castiel sits down to a meal alone again, soup steaming in a Target-bought bowl while he absently tries to read his book to keep himself occupied.

The book does little to help, as he realizes with a low dip in his gut that dinners alone are hardly wont to change if he never goes out or makes a dating profile or any of the other things that Gabriel keeps suggesting to him. Thus, in general, his position will likely never, ever change at all, knowing his predilections toward being as antisocial as he is.

A profound sense of loneliness envelops him there at the kitchen table, over his soup-for-one and the book parted in front of him. Instead of insides, Castiel feels as though what lies beneath his bones is a gaping, cavernous, empty place.

It is an empty place that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever learn how to fill.

**X**

Dean, as usual, is at work by the time that Sam rolls out of bed for school. He sighs a little at the vacant apartment and wishes that he and his brother could just mess around and be kids the way that they used to before dad died, or maybe even further back than that, to the carefree age when their mom was alive. Dean didn’t always used to be so serious, so grim-faced and worn down, but now that’s all that Sam ever sees. He misses the old Dean, but thinks that he feels sorrier for his brother than he does for himself, because Dean’s the one that lost himself in all this bullshit.

That does nothing to make him feel better, though the cold, damp nose to his leg does distract him. He smiles down and rubs his fingers over Daisy’s head, shoving shoes onto his feet and clipping her leash onto her collar to take her downstairs to do her business.

When he and Daisy return to the apartment and he fills her bowl with kibble, he finds that there isn’t much in the way of people food in the cabinets. The last time that he and Dean went to the grocery store was right when they arrived, and that was supposed to have been a run for food that would carry them through the weekend.

Sam’s stomach growls up at him in complaint.

Despite his thorough search of the kitchen, he comes up with nothing food-worthy and decides that he’ll just make a stop at the gas station convenience store between the apartment complex and his high school and pick up a candy bar of some kind.

Sam throws clothes over his shoulders, tightening a belt over his waist. He’s growing – _again –_ and even if he couldn’t feel it in his shins the inch-long gap between the tops of his shoes and the bottom hem of his jeans would be a dead giveaway. He sighs at his reflection in the mirror and runs his fingers through the mop of hair on his head before he exits back to the box-ridden living room/kitchen. Sam kisses the top of Daisy’s head and scratches behind her ears before he leaves, locking up the apartment behind him.

As he kicks off on his bike, he considers the dwindling amount of money in his wallet. Sam got a small inheritance after mom’s death and then after dad’s, but most of that money he shoved over to Dean to help pay off their dad’s debts. He kept some for himself, most stowed in a savings account for college, and then just a little for normal things like going to the movies or out to eat with his friends.

Sam doesn’t have much cash left for those normal things.

He wonders if he should look for a job of his own, maybe something like bussing tables or working the concession stand at the movie theater. That way he could contribute to paying the rent and help out with food and stuff – but then he thinks that Dean would probably take that as a slight against his ability to take care of them both. Dean’s stupid that way.

Sam grabs a Snickers at the convenience store and pays for it in quarters. He doesn’t eat it yet, just tucks it into the front pocket of his backpack and zips it in before he rolls out toward Thomas Jefferson.

In the mornings, Sam sits with Jess and her group of friends. He tries to keep it cool around Jess but has no idea if he’s succeeding. He just doesn’t want her to think that he’s some gross loser that creeps all over pretty girls for no other reason than that they’re attractive. Problem is, Jess is smart too. And she’s funny. She’s got the whole package, and Sam’s just some rough-and-tumble poor kid with dead parents, whose brother looks after him with some mysterious, suspect employment.

“Hey guys,” he greets, when he comes to the spot on the second floor where Jess and her friends hang out before the warning bell for their first classes rings.

“Hi Sam,” Jess says, before anybody else speaks.

Sam lets his backpack slide from his shoulders and sits with his legs sprawling out in front of him. He digs around for the candy bar and strips the plastic wrapping, taking a hearty bite. He’s relieved when he swallows. Even just a bite makes him feel less lightheaded and edgy.

While Sam chews on his second bite, Andy says, “Hey man, you should share.”

“Fuck off,” Sam says, mouth still half-full, “Shit’s my breakfast.”

“Wait, are you serious?” asks Jess.

Sam swallows and says, “Well. Uh. Yeah. My brother spent most of our money on the deposit for our apartment and first couple months of rent, and he works so much we haven’t really had time to get groceries our anything.” He shifts uncomfortably. Sam thinks he’s okay with Jess knowing that he and Dean are struggling to keep everything together. She’s not the type to be all loud about problems that people are having, but he isn’t sure that her friends follow the same pattern.

“You’re eating a Snickers for breakfast?” Gordon says, and cocks a brow, “Wow. You and your brother can’t even get _breakfast_.”

The tone in Gordon’s voice makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand on end and anger boil up in his stomach like acid. Before he can stop himself, he snaps, “Shut the fuck up. We’re freaking trying, okay? Not everyone gets to have it so fucking easy.” Sam grabs his backpack and stands, electricity zigzagging through his veins as he makes his escape to someplace that isn’t around stupid fucking Gordon.

He’s about halfway to his locker when somebody grabs his wrist. He whirls around and prepares to shout at somebody, but the fury settles when he sees that it’s just Jess behind him, deep frown on her face, and eyes sympathetic behind her glasses.

“Sam,” she says, “I’m really sorry about Gordon. He’s Ava’s friend…we’re not really sure what she likes about him, but he just kind of hangs around with us now. I can’t believe that he said that to you and I just,” – she lets out a noise of frustration – “Um, if you’re still hungry, I could get you something from the cafeteria.”

The offer is tempting, but Sam doesn’t like that it comes out of some kind of fucked up pity. He shakes his head and says, “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t need to be babied. I get enough of that at home.”

“I’m not trying to baby you,” she says, an edge of frustration to her voice, “I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

At that, Sam feels bad. Jess is genuinely _nice_ , and that’s something that he doesn’t run into often. He wonders if she’ll get ruined like everyone does when they realize that not everything is sunshine and rainbows, that money really does make the world go ‘round, that _follow your dreams_ comes with the stipulation _but you need to be useful_ , that people you love die and that sometimes the people you love that are still alive seem deader than the deceased.

“Sorry,” Sam says, “Look – I get that you’re trying to be nice. I have, um. I have some trouble with making friends. I’m not really good at it. I’m sorry you had to be on the crap end of that stick. If you…ah. If you’re still up for trying to be friends with me, that would be pretty cool.”

Jess makes a face at him and gives a playful whap to his arm. She says, “You dumbass. Of course I wanna be friends with you. I was actually thinking that maybe we could see a movie this weekend or something? Just the two of us. My treat, ‘cause I’m the one that asked.”

Oh Christ. He hopes that his shock isn’t written directly on his face. Is this a date? She didn’t say it’s a date, but ‘just the two of us’ kind of sounds like it means a date. Breathlessly, Sam says, “Yeah, great. That sounds awesome.”

Jess smiles the smile that made Sam change his mind about Sioux Falls and says, “Cool.”

Jess starts to turn, but she only gets a few steps before Sam bursts like a shaken-up bottle of soda. He exclaims, “Isthisadate?”

“Huh?” she says, nose crinkling with confusion.

“Is this a date?” he repeats.

One half of Jess’ lips quirk up and she asks, “You want it to be?”

“Would it be awkward if I said yes?” he asks, and fidgets, “It’s just. You’re really cool. You’re good at physics and you like classic literature and okay, yeah, you’re really pretty and it makes me so nervous because I don’t want to say anything stupid in front of you.”

Jess laughs. She says, “It’s okay if you say something stupid. I won’t judge. So, how about Saturday around seven? I’ll buy the popcorn if you let me pick the movie.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam says.

“It’s a date,” she replies.

And all that Sam can manage to say to that as she walks away, denim hugging her ass and hair piled on top of her head, is, “Yeah.”

When Sam sits down at his desk in his first class, he finishes the rest of his candy bar. It doesn’t do much to abate his hunger, but it’s enough that he’ll survive until lunchtime. At least he knows he’ll never really go hungry at school. Because of Dean’s low income, the school has Sam on a reduced lunch fee, something cheap enough that school lunches won’t be another worry to put on Dean’s shoulders.

Hunger fades into exhaustion by second period, which sucks, because Sam likes AP Lit and his teacher is pretty okay, if a little awkward. He tries to stay awake after the bell rings and Mr. Novak starts scrawling notes on the whiteboard in his cramped handwriting, but the bass drone of his teacher’s voice makes his eyelids heavy. He sets his head down on his desk.

 _Just for a second_ , he tells himself.

Only then the bell blares and Sam jerks awake. Panic sets in when he realizes that he slept nearly the entire class period, and heat rises to his cheeks in embarrassment. He hopes that Mr. Novak will let it slide, but when his teacher calls, “Sam, could I speak to you for a moment?”

Immediately, he launches into an apology, but Mr. Novak stops his speech with a lift of his hand, “It’s all right. I’m not worried about the quality of your work suffering from one nap during one class period. I just wanted to make sure that you’re okay. You don’t seem like the kind of student that dismisses his responsibilities.”

A heavy weight tugs at Sam’s heart and he casts his eyes toward the floor. God, even his most socially stunted teacher is noticing that he feels like crap. And holy hell, he still feels like crap even knowing that he has a date with the coolest girl that he’s ever met in his whole life. One positive isn’t erasing his worry for Dean. He bites down on his lip and tries to keep it together as he says, “I’m just, uh. I guess I’m kinda worried about my brother. It’s just us, y’know, and he’s working so hard and I just…he’s always tired, and he never wants me to help. I just want him to let me help.”

Mr. Novak’s lips turn down. He says, “It sounds like he’s doing all that work for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says, “That’s the problem. Do you know how much it sucks to know that your brother is working himself to death just so you’ll be kind of okay? I don’t like it.”

Again, the idea of getting his own job reaches its branches over his mind. He could be a waiter. Or maybe he could answer phone calls at a desk or something. Heck, he could even rake leaves or mow lawns like he’s twelve again.

“I think that perhaps the best way to thank your brother for his work is to take what he gives you. That way all his trouble doesn’t go to waste,” Mr. Novak’s voice is quieter than usual, something soft that has Sam torn between anger over being treated like a child and gratefulness for somebody just freaking listening to him.

Sam sighs, “I guess…maybe you’re right. He’s just so – I don’t know. Messed up. And he thinks I don’t know, but it’s kind of hard not to notice.”

Something crosses Mr. Novak’s face, a strange, stilted expression, something that tells Sam his teacher is mulling something over.

“Perhaps…” he starts, but the expression intensifies and he trails off. After a silence that is just a beat too long, Mr. Novak goes on, “When I was growing up, my life at home wasn’t the easiest. My parents were poor and the problem became triplicate when my father left us. My mother worked very, very hard to do what she could for my sister and me, and it took a great deal of coaxing to get her to allow us to help where we could. But we did speak to her, so maybe that’s what you have to do with your brother. Tell him that you’re worried.”

The shared information makes Sam feel weird. He’s not sure he trusts himself with knowing that his teacher suffered through his youth the way that Sam and Dean are suffering now. But there’s some comfort in seeing that Mr. Novak is okay now. His clothes are nice and obviously got a degree so that he could teach. He got out of the hole that his family was in. Still…

“I’ve tried,” Sam insists, “But he doesn’t listen. Dean – he’s stubborn. And he doesn’t like talking about things that he thinks make him sound ‘weak’, or whatever.”

“Just give it some thought,” Mr. Novak says, “I don’t want to make you late for your next class.”

“Okay, um, thanks,” Sam says, and turns in the direction of the classroom door.

“And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“If you need somebody to confide in, I will always be here,” says Mr. Novak, “and I check my e-mail frequently, if you need to talk when you’re not at school.”

Sam feels exceptionally weird about the offers to help from both Jess and his teacher. When their mom died, they got sympathy cards and casseroles, but no one could do much to actually help, and no one knew what to say to them. And then after dad kicked it – well, dad didn’t have any friends left. Dean is charming to point, but the relationships he made only went as far as his bedroom for a night. He didn’t have friends. Sam did, kind of, but none close enough to know what to say to him in the wake of the death of his remaining parent.

And here, he already has people that he thinks he maybe, possibly, kind of could trust enough to confide in. There’s something in Jess that draws Sam in, and maybe that’s a part of why he likes her so much. But then, Mr. Novak has that draw too, just not in the same way.

A tiny voice in the back of Sam’s mind whispers that maybe, just maybe, Dean was right about needing a fresh start in a new place.

At the end of the school day, Sam bikes home with a mostly-full belly and a plastic-wrapped sticky bun that he bought in the cafeteria to eat when he gets back home. His History teacher announced a field trip to the class today, and he really, _really_ wants to go, but he doesn’t want Dean to have to spend any more money on them. Thing is, he’s never been to the museums up this way, so even though the rest of the class seemed bored at the prospect, Sam has never seen the exhibits that they’ll be checking out.

His conflicted feelings vanish when he chains up his bike at the apartment building and Daisy greets him at the door, almost barreling him over in her excitement. She laps at his face and Sam laughs before pushing her off of his chest and ordering, “All right, all right. Down, girl.”

Daisy obeys, and sits.

“Good girl,” Sam smiles, “Let’s get you outside, huh? You probably need to pee like crazy.”

Daisy’s tail thumps against the carpet as Sam hooks her up to her leash, and she practically yanks him into the elevator when he pushes the apartment door open. Outside, Daisy takes care of business and then seems interested in playing, though Sam doesn’t want to do that so near to an open, busy road so close to rush hour. He whistled and says, “C’mere, you. We’ll play upstairs, okay?”

Daisy cocks her head and obediently lets Sam put her leash back on.

As soon as they’ve returned upstairs, Daisy leaps for him and Sam bursts into a fit of laughter. He jumps over the old couch that Dean got from some sketchy Goodwill and Daisy follows, running after him. She tackles Sam to the ground and Sam reaches to scratch her belly.

The sound of the key scraping the lock in the apartment door sounds while Sam and Daisy are mid-wrestle.

“Hey, kid,” his brother’s tired voice says. Dean throws his keys. Daisy pops up from beside Sam and trots over to sniff at Dean and greet him, possibly because Dean smells like hamburgers and peanut oil. Dean looks as if he might collapse any minute, the shadows under his eyes deep and that permanent frown pasted to his face.

“You okay?” Sam asks tentatively.

Dean shifts and swallows, looking the way he does when he has something on his mind but is doing his best to push it down as far as it’ll go and pretend that it doesn’t exist. Predictably, Dean give the back of his neck a scratch and grumbles, “Fine. Just need a beer and a nap. And a shower. I think I smell like hamburger meat.”

“You kinda do,” Sam says, “Are you sure that you’re all right?” _Please just talk to me. You haven’t said a word about dad since he died. You’re miserable and I’m sorry, because you’re making yourself miserable on my behalf. How come you never talk about your second job? Should I be worried? Hell, I already am worried._

Sam doesn’t add any of the things that he thinks of adding.

“Yup,” is all that Dean says. That’s it. One syllable. Yup, Dean is all right. Why wouldn’t he be? Naturally, Sam knows this is the height of bullshit, but before he can say a word, Dean has already retrieved a beer from the fridge, opened it, and is walking toward the bathroom that links their bedrooms together. The door closes, the muffled sound of flowing water starts, and Sam feels again that he’s been successfully swindled out of talking to Dean.

He considers wrangling Dean into conversation when he hears the water shut off, but knows that Dean is about to flop onto his bed and pass out for a couple of hours before he has to go to his second job. He doesn’t want to disturb what little rest that Dean gets.

Instead, Sam flicks on the television and pulls one of their mom’s old quilts over his body. Daisy jumps up to join him. Having a long teenage boy and huge dog spooning on a crappy couch makes for a tight fit, but Sam is grateful for the warmth and comfort. He dozes there with cartoons on, but not for too long – just long enough that he knows he should get cracking on his homework, and tries to extract himself from the blanket without waking his snoozing dog. He fails, and Daisy follows him when he moves to open his backpack.

Sam is hungry again when he sits down with his Physics book open in front of him.

It happens that Dean stumbles out of his bedroom in his bathrobe only moments after Sam’s stomach howls, so Sam says, “Hey, so we kind of have no food.”

“I’m off from the diner tomorrow. I’ll grab some groceries then. Any requests?” Dean says. His nap seems to have done him some good, and Sam is relieved to see no look of panic cross Dean’s face at the mention of needing to buy something.

“No white bread,” Sam says, “Whole grain. And some hummus and pita chips.”

“Some what now?”

“Hummus,” Sam repeats.

“All right,” Dean says, in a way that makes Sam doubt that he will be seeing hummus in the fridge after Dean goes to the store. Silence bubbles up between them. Dean looks focused, lost in thought. Sam wants to ask what he’s thinking about but doesn’t.

Instead, he breaks the silence with, “And, um. My History class is doing this trip to the museum. I have the permission form.” He pulls his folder out from underneath his Physics homework and extends the pink paper toward his brother.

Dean takes it and as his eyes flick across the page, his brows knit.

“I don’t have to go,” Sam quickly says. He knew this would happen.

“Shut up,” Dean says, “You’ll go on your friggin’ trip. I gotta get ready for work, but when do you need the thirty bucks?”

“By the end of the week,” Sam says.

Dean is quiet for a second and then replies, “Cool. We can talk about it tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Sam says, but he wishes he knew what’s on Dean’s mind. He wishes Dean would voice his thoughts aloud instead of letting them fester and make him more exhausted and less like himself with every passing day.

Dean takes Sam’s ‘okay’ as a sign that he can leave the room. Cold hovers in the space once Dean is gone, a kind of freezing emptiness that Sam thinks he’ll have to start getting used to instead of being disappointed about. He misses having his best friend around, the Dean that would take him out to the shooting range or arcade, or that he could just drink beer and watch dumb scifi movies with.

But the Dean he has now is the quiet, responsible Dean, so maybe that’s the Dean that Sam should get used to.

When Dean emerges from his bedroom with his work bag resting on his shoulder, he wears that trained, blank expression that he puts on his face before he heads out to his second job. Sam is starting to think that even though he didn’t really care what Dean is doing even just days ago that maybe he cares now. He doesn’t want Dean to get in trouble.

Shit, what if he lost the only family member that he has left? Then he’d be all alone. All he and Dean have is each other, and if Dean is doing something dangerous for a paycheck, he could be putting that in jeopardy.

“See you later,” Dean says when he collects his car keys.

Sam answers, ““Have a good day – night? – at work, dude.”

He’s depressed when Dean is gone, and silence takes over the apartment again. Sam thinks about texting Jess and then wonders if that would just come off as desperate or needy, so instead he backs his chair out from the table and says, “Daisy, you wanna go for a walk?”

The dog runs to him instantly at the word _walk_ and promptly sits at his feet.

Sam says, “Good girl,” and reaches for her leash again.

Though it’s after dark, he thinks he and Daisy both need some more fresh air. He throws a flannel over his shoulders just in case it’s chilly with the sun down, slips his feet into his torn-up shoes, and slides his cellphone into the pocket of his jeans.

Outside the apartment, the air smells like the dumpsters at the side of the building, sticky and sour. Sam wants to get as far away from that smell as he can, so instead of making rounds through the neighborhood, he takes the sidewalk that leads to the dirt bike paths that wind through the large park nearby. A sense of relief drapes over his shoulders when garbage and motor oil melt away into dry leaves and wet grass. Daisy seems pleased too, though he has to tell her to sit a couple of times so that she’ll stop tugging on the leash.

Even if it wasn’t financially responsible, Sam’s glad that Dean got a dog. Daisy’s already a third member of their tiny family unit, and it makes everything seem so much fuller. If Dean can’t be his friend anymore, at least he’ll have his dog.

Sam and Daisy turn around a bend in the path.

And then Daisy stops completely. She sniffs at the air, and after several seconds of this, Sam does too, wondering if maybe she smells some distant barbeque or fast food joint. He doesn’t smell anything but the grass and leaves –

Daisy rips out of his grip.

“Daisy!” he yells, and takes off after her. She sprints off of the path and starts heading for a clump of trees at the base of the hill, leash tailing behind her. She starts to bark, her timbre so loud that Sam can barely hear his own shout of, “Daisy, get back here!” over her ruckus.

Daisy vanishes into the trees, and Sam heaves an irritated breath before dipping in after her. He pants as he slips into the darkness of the copse. God, it’s so shadowed in here that he wonders if he’ll ever find his dog. His stomach sinks at the prospect of losing her so soon, but just as he starts to crumble, he hears Daisy nearby.

Sam pushes through the branches.

Very suddenly, he understands exactly why his dog ran.

Hanging from an old tree is a teenage girl no older than Sam himself, a nylon noose tight around her neck. Her face is pale and her eyes vacant, but what makes Sam’s breath catch is when he looks down. Blood stains her white t-shirt, dribbling from a huge, gaping chasm where her heart should be. A dizzy, nauseated feeling sweeps through him, and Sam stumbles back. If the blood flowed, it means that this girl was alive when somebody carved out her heart.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he whispers, and reaches for his phone to call 911.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I feel it important to note that all through Sam talking to Dean I had Do You Wanna Build a Snowman stuck in my head because dang it THEY USED TO BE BEST BUDDIES, AND NOW THEY'RE NOT.
> 
> As may be evident, I'm slowly being driven crazy by work and school and that would be why I took so long to give you this update. Bless you all for being patient.


	3. Scared I May Derail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I apologize for the huge gap between updates. As some of you may have noticed if you have an author subscription to me, I wrote a 36k one-chapter fic because the idea wouldn't leave me alone, and that definitely delayed this update. I'm also in the throes of finals at school (ugh) so the next couple of updates may be slow as well. Fortunately, as soon as we get to summer, I'll be free to write whatever whenever I please again.
> 
> *Also, you may notice that I comment that Dean is twenty three in this chapter. I did alter the age gap between Dean and Sam to be a little wider, so it's six years apart instead of four.
> 
> *And I don't know if anybody actually pays attention to this, but the track I matched with this chapter fits really well and is good for bad times imho.

**Chapter Track: Thiskidsnotalright – AWOLNATION**

**_Scared I May Derail_ **

Even after the phone call in which Dean was told that his dad was in the hospital with health declining rapidly, he didn’t drive this fast. Sam’s at the police station, and he called Dean at work, and some officer explained that they really needed Dean there, that Sam is asking for him. Most of the words coming from the phone were a total blur – all Dean knows is that his brother is in trouble and that the shit sounds serious.

The drive from The Love Club to the police station, with Dean flooring it, is a little less than fifteen minutes, and it’s probably the most nerve-wracking less-than-fifteen minutes of his entire life. He parks his baby and locks her up, then speed-walks into the station. He hopes he doesn’t smell too much like sweat and liquor. He _knows_ he’s covered in red glitter. Dean swears he will still be cleaning glitter out of orifices in month, and hopes that Sammy has the decency not to ask about it.

“Hi,” he says to the officer behind the front desk, “I’m lookin’ for Sam Winchester. I’m his guardian.”

“Ah,” he says, “C’mon through,” and indicates to the door to Dean’s left.

Dean opens it, strides to the other side of the desk and demands, “Is he okay?”

“I need your ID, Mr. Winchester,” the officer gruffly replies, which definitely Does Not Answer whether or not his brother is all in one piece.

“Is my brother okay?” he repeats, this time through gritted teeth.

“He’s _fine_ , Mr. Winchester,” the police officer says, “He’s just a little shaken up. Now may I have your ID, please?”

Dean pulls out his wallet and passes it over, but he doesn’t ease up on the glare that he’s giving this dude, even after he’s handed a visitor’s pass and is instructed to follow him into a small hallway lit with fluorescent lights. The police station is nothing like the police stations on TV. It’s just like any old office building, smelling of old carpeting and stale coffee and copy toner, with officers pushing papers at their desks even at this ungodly hour of the night.

The officer opens a door to a small room and says, “Mr. Winchester, your brother’s here. You’re good to go.”

Sam, with Daisy in tow, stumbles out of the room and straight into Dean, who he wraps his arms around and tugs in close to his chest. Dean hugs back, but he doesn’t speak. He and Sam only have each other, and it’s shit like this that scares Dean beyond anything he’s felt before. If, God forbid, something happened to Sam, not only would he have lost his best friend, but he would be _alone_. Dean would have nothing and no one and he doesn’t know that he could live like that.

On a shaky exhale, Dean asks, “Are you okay?”

Sam withdraws from the embrace and nods. He says, “I’m okay. I think. I’m just freaked out. God, Dean…I was walking Daisy and she got loose and I started chasing her and – and she was barking because there was, um. There was a body in the park. A dead one.”

Sam’s face flushes pale and for a second he looks like he might toss his cookies. Dean steadies him with a hand on his shoulder and says, “Jesus. I’m glad you’re okay, man. Let’s get the hell out of here, all right?”

He and Sam don’t talk in the car, and even the mutt must sense that something serious has happened, because she lies quietly over the backseat of the Impala and keeps her eyes on them while Dean drives. Now that the panic has subsided he sticks to a mere five miles over the speed limit until they reach the apartment. There, they put out more food and water for Daisy, and Dean on impulse yanks Sam into another hug.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he admits into the shoulder of Sam’s t-shirt.

Sam makes a noise of annoyance and gives Dean a gentle shove back. He says, “I’m fine. I don’t need to be babied, okay? I just need sleep.”

“Sorry,” Dean says, and sighs. He realizes that in that tiny moment he allowed Sam to glimpse his ever-growing anxiety about their tenuous living situation, a burden that his little brother should never have to know about. Sam deserves the chance to just get to be a kid. Life never afforded Dean that opportunity, and it’s something he desperately wishes had happened sometimes.

But no – No, Dean is twenty three with the debt of his dead parents on his shoulders, a high school drop out with two jobs, working toward Sammy’s future since he doesn’t have one of his own. He swallows the knot in his throat and says, “I should go back to work.”

“Wait, you’re leaving again?” Sam says, hurrying after as Dean makes to grab his car keys from where he tossed them on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Gotta finish my shift, kid.”

Sam stays quiet in a way that suggests he has things that he would like to say, but won’t say them. Dean doesn’t ask what those things are, and when he lifts his hand and says goodbye, Sam says, “Okay. See you around.”

Dean drowns out his thoughts with Motorhead cranked up on high volume. He parks in the spaces near the back of the club designated for the employees, spaces that are a short walk to avoid issues with unruly and overstepping patrons. So far Dean hasn’t had any trouble, but he’s definitely seen Lisa get some, and a couple of the other girls too. At the back door, Benny – Dean’s favorite of Kali’s hired muscle – greets him.

“How’s your brother?” he asks, Louisiana drawl rolling over the words.

“Well, our dog found a dead body,” Dean says, “so he’s pretty freaked out. I think I’m freaked out too. Dunno. If Kali asks, tell her I needed to take a minute before I came back out to the floor, okay?”

Benny gapes and then shakes his head.

“Whatever you need, brother,” he says, and watches Dean slip into the men’s restroom backstage.

Dean opens the door to the second-to-last stall and sits on the lid of the toilet, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s so tired that he doesn’t know what to even think about all of this. The sharpied-on penis on the stall door in front of him does little to help, and for once in his life he actually wishes that some hipster had left some inane wisdom there instead. Dean could use all the wisdom he can get at this point, even if it’s bathroom stall graffiti wisdom.

The fear of losing Sam still beats through his veins when he decides that he’s okay enough to slip from the bathroom and to the men’s dressing room, where he strips off his street clothes and shimmies back into his little red g-string. He musses his hair in the mirror before he slides his devil horns on his head, and after a cursory glance at his haggard face, he reaches over to sneak some of the concealer shit that Christian use, and rub it over the shadows underneath his eyes. He’d feel guilty about using something without asking first, but Christian’s a dick so he can’t find it in him to give a damn.

In nothing but combat boots, tiny underwear, horns and glitter, Dean pastes a smile onto his face and ducks back out onto the floor. The angels have the poles right now, which he’s grateful for. He doesn’t know if he could squeeze out a decent routine with the mood that he’s in.

That’s when he spots him – that guy, Cas, the one that looked terrified when his friends bought him a lap dance for his birthday. He’s tucked up in one of the corner booths in the back, rolling a beer bottle between his hands, an expression on his face that seems to say he’s questioning every decision that led him to sit here in The Love Club by himself.

When Dean slinks up there and lowers himself into the booth across from the dude, Cas looks traumatized.

“Hey,” says Dean, “You’re back.”

“I – um,” Cas stammers, “Yes. I didn’t. I didn’t want to be strange, or creepy, I just…I just found you interesting. I’m sorry.”

Cas finds him interesting. Dean can’t help but let out a little laugh at that, because he’s probably the least interesting guy in the universe, unless being a total wreck gets you points in that department. In that case, he’s the most interesting goddamn dude on the planet. And sure, okay, maybe that is a little weird. But Dean doesn’t think it’s _creepy_ , at least for this dude. It’s endearing, a little. He thinks that sometimes about clients – the lonely ones that just want somebody pretty to talk to, not the scary ones that leer at Dean like he’s a dessert buffet – that they’re endearing.

Cas is one of those, even if this is only the second time that he’s met the guy. Being twenty three and the handler of repaying his dad’s gambling debt, he’s gotten pretty good at spotting the bad eggs in the basket, and this dude just seems sad.

“How – how are things?” Cas asks.

Dean gives a shrug. He doesn’t want to ruin this guy’s night, so he says, “Could be better, but I can’t complain. I do get to wear this snazzy outfit.”

At the mention of his attire, Castiel sweeps his eyes over Dean, from the headband to his torso and down below. Cas replies politely, “You do look very nice.”

Dean holds down another laugh. ‘You look very nice’ is the kind of thing that guy says on a date, not the kind of thing that a guy says to a stripper that he’s met twice. In the background, the music changes, and Dean hears his cue that the demons will be on stage after the song ends. He says, “Ah, I’d better head up. My turn to dance, you know. It was nice to see you again.”

He stands, but before he can even take a step away from the table, Cas says, “Wait.”

Dean half-turns and finds Cas digging into his wallet. He pulls out a bill and holds it out toward Dean.

Holy shit, that’s a big bill. Dean acquires his tips in ones and fives, not _fifty dollar bills_. He blinks from the crinkled paper and back to Cas’ face and asks, “You want a dance or something?”

“No, thank you,” Cas says, red coloring his cheeks, “I – I made a mistake by coming here. This is just for you and your brother. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. It was thoughtful.”

When Dean doesn’t make a move and just gapes, Cas licks his lips and scoots forward, just far enough to tuck the bill into the side of Dean’s g-string. He withdraws his hand like he’s touched a hot stove and stands, moving to sweep past Dean and toward the front doors. It takes Dean a couple seconds to come back down to earth, and as soon as he does, he chases after Cas and grabs his wrist before he can leave.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless, “It’s okay. You’re not creepy, you know. It’s cool if you wanna stop by just for me. It’s not, like, a money thing. You’re just – a decent dude, and I – um, I don’t mind. So come back, maybe?”

Cas hesitates before he says, “Thank you, but I shouldn’t.”

Dean is disappointed. Why the hell is he disappointed?

Looking flustered and embarrassed, Castiel extracts his wrist from Dean’s grip, mutters “Goodbye,” and takes off out the club doors before the gears have time to kick on in Dean’s brain. He stares at the doors even after they close behind Cas, a strange mixture of frustration and warmth churning in his gut as he wonders what exactly the hell just happened.

**X**

Everyone is staring at him.

Sam doesn’t like it. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his muscles tense.

There was an announcement over the intercom about the girl’s death. Her name was Tricia. There was a moment of silence, and the mention that the school would be holding a candlelight vigil on Tricia’s behalf on the football field on Friday evening. Sam thinks he should go, but then he thinks that everyone might stare at him even more than they’re staring at him right now.

At first Sam thinks that his peers might lighten up on the gaping as the day continues, but they don’t. If anything, it seems only to get worse, like he’s an infamous celebrity walking the red carpet whilst surrounded by booing onlookers.

By lunchtime he feels like a criminal. Or maybe like someone with a horrible, contagious disease. It sucks. Sam knows he didn’t do this, but he’s pretty sure everyone else thinks the gory murder in the park is all Sam’s fault, directly or indirectly. The other kids in the lunch line give him a wider berth than before as they all march up to get their mediocre food. He can’t punch in his lunch code fast enough, and makes to escape.

Sam sees Jess wave at him from their usual table, but he’s pretty sure she’s the only one in her posse that’s on his side, so he just shakes his head and shoves his way out the double doors that lead to the small grassy patch outside, where a couple of neglected outdoor lunch tables sit lonely in the brisk September weather.

The chick that sits next to him in AP Lit is there, tucked into the nook beside the dumpsters where she smokes a cigarette. Ruby lifts her brows when she sees him. For a second, Sam thinks he’ll have to go back inside and eat his lunch in a bathroom stall or something, but Ruby just exhales a stream of smoke and says, “Hey.”

Sam eyes her and grumbles back a, “Hey,” before he bites into his chicken-something-or-other.

“You look kinda beat,” she says, “You all right there, captain?”

Sam swallows and responds, “I am kinda beat. In case you haven’t heard, I found a fucking corpse last night.”

Ruby rolls her eyes and takes another drag from the end of her cigarette. She says, “No need to get all snippy with me, Christ. You know everyone thinks you did it, right?”

“Well I didn’t,” he snaps.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” says Ruby, “At least I had the stones to say it to your face. Everyone else is blathering behind your back. Which I’m sure you know.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. He pokes at his food, moving it around on his lunch tray. He doesn’t feel hungry, but he knows that this is gonna be the best meal that he’ll get all day, so he makes himself finish off the rest of the slab of chicken while Ruby’s cigarette burns down to the butt. She drops it onto the pavement and crushes it under the toe of her biker boot before she stands.

“For the record,” she says, “I’m like ninety-nine percent sure that you’re too Goody Two Shoes to commit a murder.”

“And the other one percent?” he asks.

Ruby shrugs, “Sometimes it’s the clean ones you gotta look out for. I’ll see you around, Sam.”

He watches her stride back into the school, hands tucked into the pockets of her faded denim jacket. It has the patch of a punk band that Sam has never heard of sewn onto the back. He knows he thought in passing that Ruby is kinda pretty, but as the school swallows her, Sam wonders if she might be a little cool, too.

Unfortunately, Sam’s lunch period proves to be the high point of his day. The staring continues, and at one point while he’s grabbing his books from his locker, he hears some kid say to his buddy, “I’m just sayin’, dude, no one got murdered before he showed up at school. Maybe that’s why he came here in the first place. Murdered chicks at his old school, too.”

Sam turns around and barks, “Hey, fuck you!” but guys just make faces at him and take off.

By the time that he’s on his bike and riding back to the apartment complex, his mood is sour and he wants nothing more than to shut his bedroom door and lock the rest of the world out. He’s tempted to do exactly that after he’s chained up the bike and walked in the door, but Daisy looks so excited to see him that Sam clips on her leash and takes her down for a walk. Maybe the fresh air will clear his head.

After she does her business on the tree outside of the complex, Sam guides Daisy in the opposite direction of the park and the bike paths. He hasn’t explored much this way. Mostly it seems like other apartment buildings and a lousy strip mall with a cleaner’s and a liquor store, until the sidewalk teeters into a fork that slithers through some patchy grass.

Sam takes that way, which is exactly when his phone decides to ring.

He pulls his cell out of the pocket of his jeans, expecting to see Dean’s name flashing across the screen and a subsequent demand to know where he is, but instead what glows there is _Jess_.

Sam thinks about sending the call to voicemail and sticking the phone back in his pocket, but he feels sort of bad for blowing her off at lunch when she was just trying to be nice to him. So he sighs, flips open the phone, and answers, “Hey, Jess.”

“Hey,” Jess says back, “I just wanted to call and see if you were okay. How come you didn’t stick around for lunch?”

Sam says, “I didn’t – I’m sorry. Everyone’s just talking about me and I was angry. I wanted it to stop. I didn’t mean to, um. Be a dick, I guess. I know you were trying to being nice and all.”

Jess goes quiet and then asks, “Could I come see you?”

Sam hesitates. He’d love to see Jess. She probably knows that, because she already knows that he likes her a whole lot. At least, Sam hopes that she knows that. He exhales through his nostrils and says, “I dunno. That kind of seems like a bad idea given everything that’s going on.”

“Fuck that,” Jess says back, “I don’t care what other people are saying about you, okay? You’re my friend.”

Sam snags his lower lip between his teeth and says, “Jess, look. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I just don’t want you to get in trouble or anything because of me.”

“I’m not going to get in trouble,” Jess persists, “Please, Sam?”

Shit, he wants to say yes. And Jess is one of the only people that’s been cool in this town, so why shouldn’t he? Sam lets out a long breath and says, “Okay. I guess. I’m not at home, though. I’m walking my dog. It looks like we’re close to some kind of school? Let me see if I can see the name.”

He treads down the path with Daisy in front, her tail swinging in excitement. As he and his dog approach the building, he can make out the words on the front of it. He says, “It says Piney Creek Elementary.”

“Oh, awesome,” Jess says, “That’s really close to where I am. I’ll walk over and meet you at the playground, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam says again, and he pockets his phone after hanging up.

Less than ten minutes later, from his place on the swing set, Sam sees Jess trotting down the sidewalk with her pink headphones in her ears. He waves, and when she sees him, she pulls her headphones out and wraps the cord around her phone. As soon as Jess gets close, Daisy bounds over to her and sniffs at her jeans. Promptly, the dog sits and wags her tail.

“She likes you,” Sam says.

“Good,” answers Jess, “’Cause I like her.” She reaches down to scratch Daisy behind the ears before she moves again, lowering herself onto the swing beside Sam’s.

“Are you gonna be okay?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam replies, honestly, “I can’t – I just can’t get the image of that girl out of my head. I couldn’t sleep last night because I dreamed about her and I just wanted to forget about it, you know? But the people at school just won’t freaking let me.”

“They’re looking for a scapegoat,” Jess tells him, “I don’t think anyone wants to believe that somebody they’ve known forever could have done it, so they’re putting the blame on you. Most people don’t know you well enough to know that there’s no way that you had anything to do with Tricia.” Jess curls her hands around the chains of her swing, bright purple nail polish standing out against the olive tone of her skin. She leverages with her legs to start swaying back and forth.

“Do you?” he asks, “Know that there’s no way, I mean?”

Jess smiles over at him and says, “I don’t think that you had anything to do with what happened.”

A reluctant smile lifts the corners of Sam’s mouth and he replies, “Thanks.”

**X**

Dean is stuffing groceries in the fridge when his brother and the dog finally come through door. He managed to find hummus for Sam with the help of a sullen-faced grocery store employee, so he thinks he’s done his brotherly duty on that front.

Sam lets Daisy off of her leash, and it’s then that Dean notices the dopey look on his brother’s face. That look. _The_ look. The kid has met somebody that he has the hots for.

“You’re weirdly cheerful for a dude that just found a corpse,” Dean casts Sam a sly smile and asks, “All right, fess up. Who’s the girl that’s got you smiling so hard?”

The smile fades into an irritated glare and Sam says, “There’s no girl.”

“S’it a guy, then?”

Sam stares for a second and then asks, “What?”

“Hey, you do you,” Dean says, “I could get behind dudes. Wait, that came out wrong. Or maybe it came out right. Whatever.” He tries not to let his stomach drop at his accidental coming out and shoots Sam another grin.

“You like guys?” Sam says, head cocked to one side. Dean can’t tell if the look he’s getting from his brother is positive or negative.

“And chicks,” replies Dean, “Whoever. I dunno, I’m not picky.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Sam.

“Well, now you do,” Dean replies.

This seems to spur some kind of weird trust from Sam, because he inhales and says, “Her name’s Jess and we have a date this weekend and she’s _amazing_ , Dean. She likes the classics and she has glasses and she does this thing where she scrunches up her nose when she thinks something is funny and – damn it. I really like her, man.”

Never underestimate the power of an exchange of information, Dean supposes. He keeps his grin on his face and says, “Told you this place isn’t all bad. I found you your hummus crap, by the way. Just stuck it in the fridge. There’s some other stuff in there too. But uh, I got this notepad thing,” he holds it up, “sticks to the fridge. Figure when we need something we can just write it here so I don’t forget when I run for food, you know?” Perhaps it’s a testament to how boring Dean has become that a notepad with a magnet strip on the back seems like a treat to him.

Whatever. He gave Sam his thirty bucks for the field trip. He can go wild and get something for himself once in a while.

“That’s a good idea,” Sam says, “I’m gonna shower before I start homework, but thanks. For the stuff. And for trusting me with your thing.”

“What thing?”

“The guy thing,” says Sam.

“I’m sorta surprised that you hadn’t figured me out already,” Dean chuckles.

That’s true enough. Since their dad died, he hasn’t gone to great lengths to disguise his sexuality anymore. Seems like a waste of energy when the only person whose opinion matters on the subject is his softhearted baby brother. Not that Dean’s actively sought out sex from dudes. He hasn’t actually sought out sex from anybody. There’s no time for it, so he’s stuck with his own right hand and the sound of the shower to drown it out.

Dean thought about the weird Cas guy this morning when he and his hand had their usual bath-time rendezvous, and it felt strange that he did that. Like, this is just some dude from his job where he’s paid to flounce around in barely anything but his birthday suit. They didn’t meet at a coffee joint, or in line at the bank, or at a bar, or any of the regular places that you’re supposed to meet people that you like.

But then, Dean’s so fucked up that it should hardly be surprising that now his brain is fucking up who’s spank bank material and who’s not.

Sam leaves his backpack on one of the kitchen chairs and leaves to shower. As soon as the sound of the water hitting the tile fills the apartment, a crushing sense of loneliness spears through Dean. Sam has friends here, now. He has a girl that he likes that wears glasses and that’s going on a date with him. Dean doesn’t have anything close to that, which seemed kind of okay when Sam didn’t either.

Goddamn, it is so fucking selfish to wish that his little brother be just as miserable as he is.

It’s just that the only companionship that Dean can really boast is from Jody at the diner, or maybe the flirting he does with Lisa from The Love Club.

Or even weird-and-endearing Cas.

At the leaden feeling in his body, Dean takes down the cheap whiskey that he just stashed away from sight in the cabinet below the sink, behind their tiny plastic trash can. He cracks it open and pours himself enough to numb a little of the isolation that seems to follow him wherever he goes these days. When he tips the liquor past his lips, the burning sensation is small comfort.

At least it’s better than nothing, Dean thinks, and polishes the whiskey off.

There is no theme for the dancers at The Love Club tonight, and Dean had a better-rounded sleep with his morning off from the diner, but tonight he still wishes he could be home on his couch with a beer or a finger of whiskey, with his dog and his brother and his television. A short massage to his shoulders from Lisa does something to help – she looks gorgeous in her stage getup, some light blue spangly thing that makes Dean want to kiss her.

“If you don’t want to go out there tonight, I can cover for you,” she tells him, pressing her thumbs into his tense shoulders.

Dean groans and rubs a hand over his face.

“I could tell Kali you weren’t feeling well,” suggests Lisa.

“I appreciate it, Lis, but you know me and Sammy need the money,” Dean replies.

“You know,” she says, a hum to her voice and a pensive expression on her face, “You could probably make a bunch more if we collaborated on some private shows.”

Dean makes a face and says, “What, like porn?”

“No,” Lisa says, “I mean like, dances together. Performances. We’d probably perform like we look now except maybe I’d go topless? That would probably win us some tips. I’ve never really done collabs, but you’re the first guy that’s worked here that I would trust to rub a hard-on all over me and not get carried away, you know?”

“That’s weirdly flattering,” he tells her, “I’ll take the compliment.”

“I mean, it would help us both,” Lisa says, “I know it’s hard on my mom watching Ben all the time and if I had just a little extra I could spring for a babysitter some more.”

“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” Dean says, “You should’ve said something. Ben can always hang with me or Sam. I can watch him on the nights you’re dancing and I’m not, and I know Sam’s usually just doing homework after school. I can ask him if he’d be cool.”

Lisa gives Dean a long, long look. At first Dean thinks it’s because she thinks his offer is creepy, but the concern dissipates when she leans up to press a kiss to his cheek and say, “You’re a good guy, Dean. Let me know how your brother feels before I take you up on that offer, okay? And – I mean, I could use the extra cash that collabs would bring in anyway…so, I dunno. Give it some thought.”

“I will,” Dean promises, though he’s pretty sure by the time that they slip out onto the floor of the club that he’s going to tell Lisa yes. Dean will agree to basically anything at this point that’ll keep the tiny Winchester family unit afloat, short of illegal crap. As tempting as it is, if Dean got busted passing out blowjobs or dealing, he’d probably end up behind bars and would go years without seeing his brother. And that – that just won’t fly with him.

When Dean steps up to dance against his pole, he can’t see much of the audience. The light around him is too bright and the outer crust of the club too dim. A piece of him hopes, despite Cas saying that he made a mistake, that he’ll be back again tonight. Dean wouldn’t mind another fifty, but the back of his brain tells him that it’s more than just the money that has him appreciating this guy.

He’s – nice.

Dean doesn’t come across many nice people these days.

When the dancers onstage switch out and Dean takes the floor to prowl for private dance clients and tips, he finds his strange admirer nowhere. Annoyed at his disappointment, he works doubly hard to make money. He gives a lap dance to some dude with a comb-over and an ill-fitted suit and makes some solid cash, and then has luck enough to pass by the front of the club just as a group of women throwing a bachelorette bash stride in, already tipsy and decked out in novelty penis jewelry.

They ask Dean how much a private show goes for, and when he names a high price, they don’t even blink.

Despite having more drinks before the party even makes it to one of the private rooms on the upper level of the club, the ladies are actually pretty decent as far as clients go. They don’t grab at him the way that comb-over dude did, and their commentary is kept to wolf-whistling and hollering at Dean to strip off his next item of clothing.

At the end of the night, Dean has enough cash to put some away into Sammy’s college fund and keep to make sure that they make their utilities, but that doesn’t stop him from being annoyed that his shy guy didn’t show up. It’s stupid and petty and he knows that, but knowing that doesn’t stop him from feeling it.

Christ, how selfish is it that Dean just wants so much more than he needs, and how ridiculous it is that what he wants is Cas-who-is-afraid-of-strippers? He’s a one-man tragic comedy, and that knowledge has him worked into a foul mood by the time that he unlocks the door and slips into the apartment.

Dean just about jumps out of his skin when he sees Sam wrapped up in a blanket and propped on the couch with his computer open. He asks, “What the hell are you still doing up? It’s a school night.”

“I was just texting Jess,” Sam says, and before Dean can feel relief and tease his brother, Sam adds, “Where have you been?”

“Work,” Dean says, defensive, “What are you, my mom?”

Sam shoots Dean a glare and says, “I just don’t understand why you’re being so weird about it. You’re not like that with the diner. You’re not doing something stupid, are you?”

Dean is too tired for this bullshit.

“You know, Sam – it’s none of your goddamn business,” Dean tells him. He strides across the apartment and slams the door to the bathroom behind him before he has time to listen to Sam’s reply, though he can hear his brother’s voice insisting something on the other side of the wall.

Dean tunes it out, locks the door, and turns the knob for a scalding shower. He just wants the smell of sweat off of his skin.

**X**

It’s cold and Castiel’s back won’t sit right on his mattress. No matter how much he tosses and turns to find a comfortable place to rest, and no matter what soothing music he plays through his headphones to lull him to sleep, he can’t get there. His mind is too occupied, considering the emptiness of his home and the banality of his existence.

Cas lets himself stew in that until a few minutes past three in the morning, when he relents and climbs out of bed to brew himself a cup of tea. He fills his kettle with tap water from the kitchen sink and lights a burner to heat it on, going through the motions as if it were not rolling toward four in the morning. He pulls down a prettily-glazed mug that he found in a quirky sort of crafts store from his cabinet, sets his strainer on top of it, and scoops a teaspoon of green tea leaves into it.

Careful to add an ice cube before he pours the hot water (so as not to turn his leaves), Castiel sits at his kitchen table, where he left his laptop before trying to go bed. He opens it and decides to spend his restlessness answering e-mails, but before he can reach that point of scanning through his inbox, a little flashing box appears in the corner of his gmail.

                _Anna: Isn’t it like three am your time_

_Anna: What are you doing awake_

_Castiel: I’m having trouble sleeping. I’ve missed talking to you. Do you know when you’ll be back in the States?_

He does miss his sister. Anna is his only living relative and being that she’s across an entire ocean, they don’t often see each other, even around the holidays. Castiel has spent his last two Christmases by himself. Last year, he bought himself a new book and wrapped it just so that he would have something to open on Christmas morning.

                _Anna: I’m not sure. I’m on my lunch though, you wanna video chat?_

Castiel immediately agrees, eager to see his sister’s face. When Anna appears on his screen, she looks even lovelier than she did the last time that he saw her. Her skin has a tan, healthy tone to it and her makeup is flawless. When she waves, French manicured fingers shine in the light from the lamp beside her.

As soon as his own face appears, however, the genial smile on her face melts into a look of concern. She says, “You look like a mess. Are you okay?”

Castiel glances down at the thumbnail below Anna’s image. His hair is sticking up and deep shadows bruise the undersides of his eyes. His bathrobe has some kind of stain on it that he didn’t notice until now. He looks awful, and he knows that it’s because he feels awful, but he doesn’t want to make Anna worry and fly all the way from Dubai to Sioux Falls just to check on him.

So Castiel shrugs off his haggard appearance with a lie: “I just haven’t been able to sleep lately. I’m sure it will pass.”

Anna frowns at him and replies, “If you’re sure. It’s my right as a big sister to worry, though. If it doesn’t tide over, you should probably talk to a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” he says to this.

Anna seems to sense that her fussing should come to its natural end, but unluckily for Castiel, Anna makes a swift move from sisterly concern to sisterly badgering. She asks, “So, what’s new? Have you met anybody? You’re young and you’re handsome. I don’t think I’ll believe you if you tell me there isn’t at least _somebody_.”

Cas opens his mouth to tell her that, no, he has crossed paths with a romantic interest. But that isn’t what he says. Instead, he finds himself saying, “There’s…a guy.”

“I knew it!”

“Anna.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“He’s very attractive. He has…green eyes, and freckles. And he’s a very good man. We haven’t, um. We haven’t spoken much, but he told me that his parents have passed too and that he looks after his younger brother.”

“Oh?” Anna arches a brow, “He sounds like a keeper. Does he have a name?”

Cas feels his face heat and shifts his gaze down, studying the grain of wood of his kitchen table. He says to the table, “I’ve been…too shy to ask him.”

Anna _harrumphs_ and says, “Castiel, you need to be able to put yourself out there. If he felt comfortable speaking about those things with you, then he must at least like you a little bit.” Behind her, somebody approaches and she turns, and they exchange a handful of Arabic words before she turns back to the computer screen. Anna sighs, “It looks like my time is up. Maybe we can find a time to do this again when we don’t have crap we have to do.”

“Maybe,” says Castiel, knowing that the next time he’ll speak with his sister will most likely be Thanksgiving. He adds, even though he doubts it will happen, “I hope you’ll visit home soon.”

Anna lets out a laugh and says, “I’ll try my best. Take care.”

When Anna blips off of his computer screen, the weight of his describing the stripper to his sister as though he is a legitimate presence in Castiel's life falls all at once on his shoulders. Why did he tell Anna about him? This is something that he meant to keep to himself, and meant to stop.

Castiel wonders what on earth he’s supposed to tell Anna if she asks about his mystery crush again.


	4. Money Don't Grow On Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this is Sam/Jess, so if that doesn't float your boat, you can skip past that.

**Chapter Track: Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked – Cage the Elephant**

**_Money Don’t Grow On Trees_ **

Dean is home in that gap between his diner gig and his mysterious second job, so Sam takes the opportunity to pass him the flier about parent-teacher conferences next week. Dean takes the paper from his hand and says, “I’ll take that night off,” in his gruff, perpetually-tired voice. He feels bad to dump another thing on Dean’s shoulders, but more than one teacher asked if they’d see his parents that night.

_Guardian_ , Sam had corrected them. He’d gotten looks at that but didn’t bother getting offended. There’s enough to worry about even without worrying about your teachers worrying about you.

“You don’t have to go,” Sam still feels the need to say, “I mean. My teachers asked if you’d be there? But it’s still optional.”

“I said I’d go, Sam,” Dean says, voice sharp.

Sam doesn’t bother replying to that. He doesn’t want to feel down when Jess gets here, and that’s supposed to be any minute now. He ducks into the bathroom to give himself another once-over. Not bad. He’s not sure his hair is sitting right but he likes the way that the new jeans Dean got him sit on his body.

When he hears a knock from the other room, he scrambles to get to the door before Dean can. The last thing that he needs is an interrogation.

“Hey,” Sam says, a little breathless.

Jess looks so awesome. Not that she doesn’t always. She’s wearing a dress with little birds printed on it, bright red tights to stave off the autumn cold, and a knit hat pulled down over her ears. He grins at that and remarks, “I like the hat.”

“Thanks,” Jess says, “I made it.”

“You made it?”

“Yeah,” she says, “I crochet.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Sam asks.

Jess replies, “I can’t sing. I’m totally tone-deaf.”

“I’d have to hear that to believe that,” he says.

To this, Jess snorts, “Trust me, you don’t want to.”

This is the moment that Dean chooses to yank the apartment door all the way open and give Jess an assessing stare. It doesn’t look that intimidating since he’s got a smile on his face. It isn’t a real smile, but one of Dean’s strained “I’m trying to be nice” smiles. Jess doesn’t seem to pick up on that.

“You’re Dean!” she exclaims, “Sam talks about you all the time.”

“And you are Jess,” Dean says, “Sam never friggin’ shuts up about you.”

Jess laughs, Sam’s face heats, and he instantly wants this interaction to be over. He says, “Well, now that everybody knows each other, we’ve got a movie time to make. And you have work soon, so. Bye. I’ll probably be back late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, but just before Sam can make it out the door, he feels Dean stick his hand in the pocket of his jacket, stuffing something inside of it. On the stairs, when he checks to see what it is, he finds two condoms. He can’t help but roll his eyes at Dean’s optimism for Sam’s evening, but he does appreciate the sentiment. Dean hasn’t brought anybody home since they moved here, probably on account of not having the time to dick around, so he has to wonder if Dean picked these up just for him.

Jess has a beater of a car, some 1990s manual monstrosity that sputters to life only with some coaxing words from Jess and her hand giving a soothing pat to the steering wheel. Pink fuzzy dice dangle from her rearview mirror.

Sam, while negotiating the date, insisted that they go to dinner first, and also insisted that he pay for it. He does let her choose the restaurant, since he doesn’t know any of the good places in the area yet. She opts for a Thai place, and the food turns out to be pretty awesome. They sip Thai tea and in between bites of noodles talk about their classes and their favorite music and a little bit about their families, although Sam cuts off the conversation when Jess asks about his parents.

He likes Jess, but talking about his parents is…well. Sam doesn’t know that he could jump on having that conversation lightly.

The amount on their bill at the end of the night makes Sam wince internally, but if he’s gonna spend the dregs of his inheritance on something, it may as well be good food and good company.

The movie that Jess decides on is some horror movie that’s a sequel to another horror movie, or possibly the sequel of a sequel.

“You can’t make fun of me,” Sam says as a movie theater employee rips their tickets and points them in the direction of their theater when he hands them their stubs, “but horror movies totally freak me out.”

Jess arches a brow and says, “Seriously?”

“I said not to make fun of me,” he says back, but he’s smiling. He does kind of hate horror movies, but if Jess is into them then he’s willing to give them a shot. Maybe then she’ll think it’s acceptable if he asks her on a date to the shooting range, since Sam’s into shooting while Jess confessed over dinner that she hasn’t even held a gun.

The theater is a small one and sparsely populated. Their fellow movie-goers are mostly teenage couples exactly like them, leaning into each other and talking while the pre-movie advertisements roll. At Jess’ insistence they take a spot near the top.

And then, just as the lights dim and the previews begin to play, Jess sets her arm on the armrest between them, palm up – an invitation. Sam smiles shyly and laces his fingers in hers, and when Jess catches him looking, she smiles right back. It stirs up warmth in his gut, this feeling that he hasn’t had in ages. It makes Sam realize that maybe he hasn’t actually been _good_ for ages; he’s just been sad Sam Winchester with two dead parents.

“Buckle up,” she murmurs, when the opening sequence of the movie starts.

“Shut up,” he says back.

“ _SHH_ ,” says somebody below them.

It shouldn’t surprise Sam that what began as innocent hand-holding turns into him clinging onto Jess’ shoulder and tensing at the jump-scares and creepiest moments. But here he is, surprised that he can’t hold his own while he watches the sequel of a sequel of a B-rated horror movie. Fortunately, Jess doesn’t push him away. She just holds him close and stifles chuckles when Sam flinches in fear.

The ending is a cliffhanger, and as the credits roll to a spooky score the lights come back on. Sam has to extract himself from Jess, since somehow during the movie he managed to get his arms around her like an octopus. As soon as they’re untangled, Jess gives him a self-satisfied expression.

“Are you gonna tease me?” he asks.

Jess replies airily, “I didn’t say anything.”

So, of course, as soon as they get in her car, Jess laughs, “I can’t believe that _you’re_ freaked out by horror movies. Of all the people. You’re like this big, clingy teddy bear.” Jess starts the car with that same sputtering, and Sam makes a mental note to ask Dean what he thinks that could be.

“Oh, fuck you,” he says back, “You’re a sadist. Or a masochist. Maybe both. How can you sit there and enjoy that?”

She shrugs, “I get a kick out of being scared. Plus most of them are pretty formulaic, so when they’re not it’s a nice surprise.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re a baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Sam says back, and in his scrambling to think of something clever to say he tacks on, “Your mom’s a baby.”

Jess lets out an unholy snort over the sound of her indie music and starts to laugh when they come to a red light and she gets a chance to look at his face, which he’s certain is bright red. God, he’s never been this clumsy with girls. Sure, he’s had his foibles, but it seems like because he likes Jess so much more than he’s liked anybody else that he’s fucking up more than he’s ever fucked up before.

She’s still laughing and poking fun at Sam by the time she pulls into a guest space in the complex’s lot.

When the engine shuts off, Sam steals the opportunity to silence the laughter. He leans over the gearshift and covers her lips with his. It’s simple at first, just closed mouths moving against each other, but Jess runs her tongue over the seam of his lips and he opens to let her in. Holy crap. She tastes really good. Hell, okay, she kind of tastes like movie theater popcorn and sticky lipgloss but underneath that there’s this _taste_ , this thing that’s just Jess and makes him lean in to get as much of it as he can. Sam feels himself start to get hard in his jeans, and shit, he hopes that that isn’t too obvious.

Maybe if he keeps kissing her, Jess won’t see the beginnings of the monster erection he has trapped in his pants.

Jess pulls away only to breathe. She’s grinning, and someplace in the mix Sam thinks he pulled off her hat, because it’s no place to be seen, and her hair sticks out, mussed up and framing her face like a halo while the light of a streetlamp shines through it. Instinctively, Sam reaches out to cup Jess’ cheek and stroke over her skin.

“Maybe,” she says, “Maybe we should move to the backseat?”

“What?” is the first word that comes out of his mouth, because _what_? Sam manages to amend, “Wait, are you sure?”

A soft laugh, a different laugh than the ones Sam’s heard from her before, escapes her, and Jess replies, “Yeah, I’m sure. It’s not like we’re gonna have sex. It’s just super hard to kiss you right when there’s a stick shift between us,” – her eyes flick down to the area that Sam hoped she would not see – “Although there is a stick shift I don’t think I’d mind as much.”

A surprised burst of laughter shakes Sam’s chest. He says, “Yeah, okay,” and follows Jess when she climbs over the seat. As soon as he lands beside her, her lips are on his again, her tongue strokes inside his mouth, and Sam’s brain starts sputtering into a mode that it hasn’t really ever been in before. Sure, he likes porn from time to time, and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t jerk it pretty regularly, but this is so, so different than that. Jess is intoxicating. He feels like he can’t get enough, like he can’t get as close to her as he wants no matter how deep he makes the kiss.

When they part, Jess asks, “How far have you gotten before?”

“Uh,” Sam says. _Eloquent_. Excellent job, Winchester.

He clears his throat, “I got a handjob once. Like, a year and a half ago. But mostly I’ve just kissed people. Is that weird?”

Jess leans forward, but instead of touching her lips to his, she kisses the tip of his nose and says, “It’s not weird. But maybe we should change that.”

Sam watches, frozen in place, as her fingers reach over the buttons on the front of her dress. She undoes them one agonizing button at a time until she reaches the soft crease of her belly.

Holy shit.

Sam is far from a bra expert, but he likes the one that she has on. It has polka dots on it and light blue lace over the top of it. She’s – “Wow,” he says. Her breasts aren’t big, but they aren’t small, either. Sam has a feeling that they’d be the perfect size to fit right in the palms of his hands and –

Aw, Jesus. “Beginning” of an erection sprints straight to being the most painful hard-on of his life.

“I wore this one on purpose,” Jess tells him, a tiny curve to her lips, as she reaches down and – huh – unclips the bra from the front. Sam hasn’t ever seen that before and _ohgodthosearehertits._

He must be slow on the uptake, because Jess chuckles and grabs Sam by his wrists, tugging him close and place his palms right where he wants them to be. He kisses her, hard, and presses his thumbs against her nipples, making them hard under the touch. A soft sigh escapes from Jess and into Sam’s mouth and it has him tugging her so that she’s on her back on the seat and he can wiggle between her legs. It’s a little awkward being this tall in such a small car, but Sam can’t find a damn to give.

Sam leans over her and kisses her throat, letting his lips slide over her skin before he reaches the swell of her breasts. He pulls up to admire them again. He can’t help it – he’s seventeen and this is his first experience seeing boobs in the flesh. It’s kind of awesome and Sam feels that he should savor that awesomeness as much as he can.

“You,” he says, “God, you’re so pretty.”

Jess just grins back and says, “I know.”

Sam dips in and runs the flat of his tongue over one nipple. Jess makes a sound, this whimpering sound, and it has him tingling everywhere. He wishes they were someplace less confining than the backseat of a car, so that maybe he could take off his shirt and feel what it’s like to be pressed skin to skin to Jess.

For now, he satisfies himself closing his mouth over one nipple while he strokes over the other with his hand. Jess makes more noises, tiny mewls that he thinks might be something bigger, but that she’s trying to keep quiet.

Jess arches up and presses herself against his erection and that’s it. Sam moans around her nipple and tenses up.

Oh, fuck.

“I just came in my pants,” he says, forehead pressed to her damp skin, “Of all the embarrassing shit –”

“Sam,” Jess says, and pushes his head back up, “Relax. It was…kinda hot, actually. And it’s not like this is the last time we’ll get to do this.”

“It’s not?”

“Well, you had fun, didn’t you?”

Sam nods, “It was amazing. You’re amazing. I want to do this for like every weekend for the rest of my life.”

Jess chuckles and says, “Me too. So. I guess that means we can plan a second date. Or maybe just text me when your brother’s out and we can – hang out. Gotta keep working on those extracurriculars, you know.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, “I guess it wouldn’t look good to a college for a guy to end his learning experience after such a short period of time.”

Another laugh. Sam laughs too, and they keep laughing until Jess lets out a sigh, running her fingers through Sam’s sweat-damp mop of hair. She says, “You’re really cool, you know that?”

“That’s good to hear, because I’ve been trying pretty hard to be cool around you,” he says.

Jess says, “I don’t think you even need to try.”

After that, Sam and Jess lie tangled up together, exchanging lazy kisses without speaking until the come cools in Sam’s boxers and they start to get uncomfortable. Jess sits up and hooks her bra back together, eventually pulling the buttons of her dress back into place. She still looks like a mess, hair everywhere and lips swollen from kisses and eyes heavy-lidded. He kind of feels like an ass since she didn’t get off, too, but also Sam’s not sure he knows how to make a girl come off the top of his head.

_Note to self: Google._

Jess gives him a kiss goodnight, then, and he makes her promise that she’ll text him when she gets home to make sure she got there safe.

Sam is almost lightheaded as he pulls himself up the stairs. It takes him longer than usual to get his key in the door and turn it the right way. He just feels so _good_. He didn’t even know it was possible to feel this good.

When Sam slips into the apartment and closes the door quietly behind him, he leans his back against it, closes his eyes, and just smiles.

“You use those condoms, comrade?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Sam says, thumping back against the door in his surprise, doorknob digging straight into his spine. Dean is still up, looking freshly showered but just as exhausted as he always seems. He exhales as soon as his heart stops beating out of his ribcage and answers, “No, we didn’t do that.”

“Well, you did something,” Dean says, one brow cocked high, “I can see it on your face, you smug bastard.”

Sam casts a look at his brother, but decides to fess up. Dean will pry and pry and pry until Sam gives him the details, so he may as well spare himself the irritation and just confess. He says, “Uh. Well. She took her bra off. And it was _awesome._ But I kind of…came early.”

“You creamed your pants, didn’t you?”

“Ew,” Sam says, “Shut up.”

“You totally did.”

“I hate you,” Sam tells him.

Dean sort of sobers. For a second, Sam thinks Dean might have taken his snippy comment seriously, but he’s proven wrong when Dean opens his mouth and speaks. He says, “Hey. You better treat her right, dude.”

Sam feels his brows pinch and asks, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Just remember that boob-touching is privilege, not a right. That’s all I’m sayin’. Means she trusts you, so you better not fuck with that trust,” he says.

Sam nibbles on his lip and answers, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he repeats, “I should get a shower and then hit the hay.”

Impulsively, Sam crosses the room and throws his arms around Dean. The embrace only lasts half a second, but he thinks Dean might be kind of smiling when Sam pulls back.

“Sweet dreams, kid,” Dean says.

Later, with hair wet from his shower pressed back against his pillow, Sam smiles in the dark, grinning like an idiot right to his ceiling.

**X**

Dean spends the morning before Sam’s parent-teacher conferences distracted, vacillating between highs of pride and knowing that he’ll probably hear nothing but good things about his brother, and slipping low when he thinks how Sam mentioned that his teachers specifically asked for Dean to come. Is there something that Dean’s fucking up? Because there are definitely a million ways that he could be fucking Sam up.

Or maybe something is wrong at school and Sam just hasn’t bothered to tell him.

But why would Sam be so forthcoming about the conferences if he knew that his teachers were going to shit on him?

Man, Dean is fucking stupid this morning.

At the tail end of this observation, he smacks straight into a waitress. The pot of coffee in his hand goes flying and Dean goes flying too. He falls on his ass about a second after the coffee pot shatters against the tile and hot coffee spatters the waitress.

“Fuck,” he manages to get out. He thinks he stuck his hand in some glass. Jesus, yeah, he’s bleeding –

“ _Winchester_!”

Oh, crap.

Zachariah appears in the kitchen, face red up to his ears with fury, and Dean knows he’s fucked.

“I tell you time and time again to stop daydreaming,” Zachariah raves, “and this is why. Not only did you injure another employee, but you damaged company property and you managed to injure _yourself_. I can’t have someone like you working in my diner. I want you gone. Right now.”

“But –” Dean starts, panic rising. He needs this job. Oh God, he needs this job.

“But nothing,” Zachariah snaps, “You’re a danger to your coworkers and you’re a danger to yourself. Leave immediately, or I will call the police and have you escorted off of my property.”

An argument rolls to the tip of Dean’s tongue, but one glare from Zachariah has it withering. He tries to push himself up and slips in the spilled coffee. Everyone stares, until Jody pushes her way up to him and offers a hand.

“Thanks,” mutters Dean.

“Don’t worry about it,” she responds, “You go wait outside and I’ll grab the med kit so we can wrap up your hand.”

Dean offers a shaky smile. He tries not to focus on the stares from not only his coworkers, but the patrons whose breakfast he interrupted, too. Thick, hot humiliation drips over his shoulders, and he feels like he might be sick. Dean considers, as he steps out to the parking lot, just jumping into his baby and turning tail as fast as he can, but the hand that he stuck in the glass hurts like a bitch and he doesn’t think he’d do a good job of fixing it himself.

Jody isn’t far behind him. She says, “I can’t believe that man.”

“I don’t – can we not talk about this,” he says.

Jody frowns, “Dean, you _need_ this job.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he grits out, “Just get the glass outta my hand and go.”

“Dean…”

“Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and places the med kit on baby’s hood. Jody has to tweeze out a couple of pieces of glass, but for the most part Dean left the bits of the coffee pot behind in the diner. It stings when Jody pours something onto the cuts, and keeps stinging even after she’s wrapped his hand and secured the gauze in place with a long strip of medical tape.

“Looks like you’re good to go,” she tells him.

“Thanks.”

Dean turns to open the car door, but Jody rests a hand on his shoulder. He glances over at her, and she says, “Don’t be a stranger, okay? If I hear anything about jobs opening up I’ll text you, all right?”

“Yeah,” is all that Dean says before he climbs into his car and pulls out of the parking lot, ready to be as far away from this disaster as he can get.

Worry runs through his head like a flipbook, the pages flying by so fast that Dean’s not sure which of the problems is worst. He won’t be able to pay rent with just the club income. He won’t be able to get food for him and Sammy. If he can’t provide for Sam, then Sam will be taken away and then what’ll he do?

Shit, shit, shit, a million times _shit._

It’s only after Dean pulls into a space at the apartment building that he realizes that he doesn’t want Sam to see him like this when he comes home from school. He doesn’t want Sam to know what happened, because he doesn’t want his brother to have to worry the way that he has to worry.

With a jerk, Dean pulls back out of the lot.

He doesn’t drive with a destination in mind, just _away_ echoing through his head. Dean needs to be far enough away from it all to think, to breathe, to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do next when he’s fucked up everything that he has. He slams his hands against the steering wheel and honks by mistake. Some guy in a Ford gives him the finger and Dean returns it right back.

Dean isn’t sure how long he drives. It feels like forever, but when he looks at his watch, it’s only been fifteen minutes. That’s far enough, right?

But he doesn’t stop until he comes across someplace quiet-looking, a sprawling area of manicured grass and trees changing color, marked by a sign that reads _McKennan Park_. He wanders around the perimeter for some time, until eventually Dean decides he should park and breathe some fresh air, or something like that. Still, he finds himself sitting still in the Impala for several crawling minutes before he gathers himself enough to start walking into the park.

Dean doesn’t go very far, just finds an unoccupied park bench and collapses into it, every bone in his body weary beyond anything he knew he could feel.

The first thing he does, when he’s put together enough parts of his mind to think straight, is take out his phone to text Lisa.

                _12:24 Dean: decided im cool w performing w you. sorry it took so long for me to decide._

_12:25 Lisa: Are you okay?_

_12:31 Dean: no_

_12:31 Dean: but ill figure it out_

_12:31 Lisa: Okay. Text me if you need anything._

Dean doesn’t reply to Lisa’s last text. Instead, he slides his phone back into his pocket and slumps further back into the park bench. A jogger passes by with her dog, some shaggy thing that looks happy as hell to be on a run. It makes him angrier to see so many people laughing, or looking like they’ve just got their shit together in general. Even if Dean had the energy to run in the park with his dog, he’d barely have time. It must be nice being able to carve a place in your schedule for yourself.

But he wouldn’t fucking know.

Exhaustion sinks into him and he closes his eyes, tipping his head skyward.

He swears that his eyes are only closed for a handful of minutes, but when he jerks to consciousness the sun has almost set and _ohfuckohfuckohfuck_ of all the days to fuck up his timing, it had to be the day when he’s scheduled to meet Sam’s teachers. Dean checks his watch – it’s just past five o’clock. If he hurries, he’ll get to the high school on time and make the conferences.

He’s such a fucking idiot.

When Dean reaches his car he slams the door behind him, starting the engine and jetting out like he’s the criminal in an action flick car chase. His brain still feels heavy and sleep-addled, probably because that’s the most sleep that Dean’s gotten in weeks. Almost five hours, and his skull feels like it’s filled with cotton.

He makes it.

Dean gets directions from a school security guard and jogs to the closest of Sam’s classrooms. There are a few parents and some of the students hanging around and waiting, so that’s what he does, too. He hangs around and waits.

It’s nearly half an hour before Dean gets to talk with Sam’s Physics teacher. The gal praises Sam’s work ethic and his smarts, like Dean was pretty sure that she would, but she does say that Sam’s quieter than her other students and sometimes withdrawn. That’s hardly surprising. It figures that all the bullshit that’s happened in the past couple of years would bog Sam down into being messed up in one way or another.

And the other teachers follow this same pattern, each assessment of Sam’s work being pretty much the same. _He’s a great student, a pleasure to have in class, but he sometimes worries me. Is everything all right at home_? He wants to snap at all of them that it’s none of their business, but instead he just says that Sam lost his father recently and has still been reeling from the loss. It’s not a whole lie, just part of one, so Dean doesn’t feel bad about saying it.

A full-on pounding headache bounces around his brain by the time that Dean reaches the last of Sam’s teachers – the AP Lit instructor.

The bottom drops out of his stomach when he enters the classroom.

Son of a bitch. He’s going to be sick.

“Awesome,” he says, “Great. I’ve given my brother’s teacher a lapdance. That is just the cherry on top of my fucking day.”

Weird-but-endearing-Cas – or _C. Novak_ , as the plastic placard on the classroom door declares – gives Dean the most incredulous look of open disbelief, presumably stunned silent until several tense seconds later Dean sees his throat bob, and he asks, “You – you’re Sam Winchester’s brother?”

Dean folds his arms over his chest and says, “Yeah. He got the brains.”

Cas frowns at him.

“Perhaps,” he then says, “we should start over.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but he nods, just once.

“Right,” says Cas, “I’m Castiel Novak. I’m your brother’s AP Literature teacher.” He extends his hand, expecting Dean to shake it.

And so Dean does. He shakes Cas’ hand like they’re meeting for the very first time and sits in one of the chairs arranged beside Castiel’s desk. He rubs his hands over his face before he finally finds it in him to answer, “I’m Dean Winchester – Sam’s brother.”

“It’s good to meet you.”

“Yeah…same,” Dean replies, and tries not to sound awkward. Despite Cas’ efforts he still feels completely humiliated. Of all the bullshit situations for the universe to put Dean in, it’s his little brother’s teacher having seen him in nothing but a g-string, combat boots, and a pair of devil horns.

Castiel clears his throat and turns his attention away from Dean and onto a folder in his hands. He pulls out a stack of papers and hands Dean the stapled packet of them on the top as he speaks, “As I’m sure you know, your brother is extremely intelligent. This is one of his first assignments of the quarter. I like to give the students a simple essay with a topic they’ve written on before, just to assess where they are in their writing ability. While this class does primarily focus on the reading side of English, I do want my students to become better writers.”

Dean nods.

“I was particularly impressed with Sam’s paper,” Cas says, “I asked the students to write a short paper around two or three pages on their hero, and this is what he turned in. I think you probably should read it.”

The paper is marked with a happy face at the top in red pen, and a sloppily scrawled _100%._ That’s better than Dean did on any paper throughout his high school career. Even if he tried, best he could get was typically a B. A swell of pride makes him warm from the inside out, and he smiles just a little.

_Sam Winchester_

_Castiel Novak_

_AP Literature_

_3 September 2013_

_A Stronger Hero_

_It might be called presumptuous for me to write that I believe my hero to be more important than any other, but that’s what I know to be true. My hero is the reason I have a home and the reason that I have somebody to call my family. That hero is my brother, Dean_.

Dean looks up and casts an disbelieving look at Castiel.

“Read on,” Cas tells him, and so Dean does, though now the heat of pride seems overtaken by the sensation of his heart leaping into his throat.

                _I know that many people consider family members to be their heroes, most often their mothers or fathers, but my mom passed away a few years ago, and my dad wasn’t really hero material after it happened. My brother is the one that stepped up to take care of everything, to make sure that we had food and that I had clothes that fit, that the house was kept clean, and Dean even looked after my dad when he would come home drunk and couldn’t get upstairs to his room._

Dean didn’t know Sam knew that. He tried so hard for Sam not to have to know things like that.

                _I don’t think that Dean ever wanted me to know that he took care of any of these things for me and for our family, but it’s hard not to notice your brother doing the job of two parents when your mom isn’t there anymore and your dad’s on his way to being gone, too. I never had to worry about whether or not I would be okay, because had Dean, and that’s still true to this day._

_When our dad followed our mom, he left a lot of bad behind him. There were people that wanted money from us that dad had owed them. Without Dean, I don’t think I would have known what to do. Dean made sure that those people never hurt or cheated us. When his inheritance didn’t cover what dad owed, Dean sold our old house in Kansas and we moved to Sioux Falls._

_I was angry at first. I didn’t want to move, especially right as my senior year in high school was starting. But then I met friends here, and that helped me set aside the blinders I had on. Here, Dean works two jobs just so he can take care of us. If I ask for something, he’ll always have a way to get it, even if I tell him that he doesn’t have to._

_We don’t talk about it a lot, but I know my brother loves me. It’s impossible not to know when I watch him work so hard and make himself so tired, just so that I can have the things that he didn’t have. Dean didn’t get to have a senior year of high school with field trips and dances and friends. By the time that Dean should have been a senior in high school, our mom was dead and our dad couldn’t take care of us like he should have been able to. My brother gave up everything to keep us together, and he still gives up so much just to make sure that I can be happy. He’s the glue that makes our family stick._

_So, while other people may cherish the wisdom of their mothers and fathers, my hero is something different, and something stronger. Dean puts everything ahead of himself. Sometimes I wish that he wouldn’t do it, because I want him to be happy too. The only thing that Dean kept from our old lives for himself is dad’s old ’67 Impala, because Dean loves that car. He fixed her up all by himself after dad ran into a telephone pole._

_I hope eventually I’ll figure out how to help us both be happy. In the meantime, my brother amazes me. He’s resilient and he doesn’t give up, and he never lets his family fall apart. That is why he is my hero._

Dean sets down the essay and lets out a rattling breath. Before he knows what’s happening, his next inhale is less of an intake of breath and more a dry, loud sob. In an instant his face is hot and wet and everything that he’s spent the day trying to hold in erupts out of him. He holds his face in his hands and refuses to look at Cas.

Sam has so much fucking faith in him to take care of everything, and today he screwed everything up. There’s a high chance that everything that Sam wrote about him will fall apart in the next couple of weeks if Dean can’t find a new day job, and fast.

He shouldn’t be anybody’s hero.

**X**

Castiel didn’t expect the face of Sam Winchester’s older brother to be the familiar face of the stripper from The Love Club, but that shock pales in comparison to this. Of all the reactions he expected Dean to garner from reading Sam’s hero paper – pride, the warmth of being praised, and perhaps based on Sam’s description, a modest insistence that Sam exaggerated him – bursting into tears was not among them.

He is not prepared to handle this situation.

Cas tries to think fast and be quick on his feet. The appointed parent-teacher conference times have come to a close, and most of his colleagues will already have gone home already. That affords them a little bit of a privacy.

“Here,” he says, and stands, pulling Dean up to his feet as well, “Let me take you to the teacher’s lounge.”

Dean doesn’t argue, just lets himself be herded down the hall and around the corner. Castiel has to unlock the door to the lounge and flip on the lights, and after he does, he guides Dean to sit at one of the round tables provided in the room for teachers to have a place to eat lunches outside of their classrooms.

“I’m going to make you coffee,” he decides upon saying, “It’s very bad coffee, but I think it’s better than nothing.”

Again, Castiel tries to work fast. He pours cheap grounds into a coffee filter and inserts them into the machine, pressing the appropriate buttons to start the brewing. Being that teachers are in general impatient for coffee in the morning and that the machine makes a watery cup in any case, the pot doesn’t take even two minutes to fill. Cas takes down his own mug from the cabinet (it is labeled with his name on masking tape at the bottom of it) and fills it, setting the coffee in front of Dean.

Dean still has not stopped crying, though he hides his face against the crook of his arm and tries to muffle the noise.

With a tentative hand, Castiel reaches out and lowers that arm. He licks his lips and asks, “May I – may I ask what’s wrong? I…thought that Sam’s paper would make you happy.”

Dean, red-faced and glassy-eyed, stares. Castiel retrieves the box of tissues from on top of the refrigerator and places them in front of him. Dean takes one and blows his nose into it. When he crumples the tissue in his fist the tears seem to have stemmed.

“I lost my fucking job,” Dean hoarsely says.

“At the club?” Castiel asks. He could have a word with Gabriel, see if Gabe could charm Kali into forgiving whatever offense Dean has committed.

“No,” Dean says, “at the diner. The boss kept ripping on me for ‘daydreaming’ or whatever. This morning I got distracted ‘cause I was worried about what I was gonna hear tonight from Sam’s teachers and I dropped a pot of coffee all over the floor. He fired me in front of the entire restaurant. I can’t make rent without that job. I can’t take care of Sam like he says I can in that paper without that job and I just _don’t know what I’m supposed to do._ I don’t know how I’m supposed to make ends meet. If I can’t do it, I’ll lose Sammy. He’s all I’ve got.”

Castiel’s heart stutters in his chest. He says, “Your brother says in his paper that you fixed your father’s car by yourself. I – I have an old family friend in town that runs a salvage yard and repair shop. I could call him and put in a good word, give you his number.”

Dean doesn’t speak at first, merely gapes. Then, he reaches, fists his hands in Castiel’s striped shirt, and yanks him forward.

He is being kissed.

Castiel is being _kissed._

Moreover, he’s being kissed by a man that he’s thought about far too much over the past weeks.

Cas is so enthralled that he forgets to react, which has Dean pulling away from him. He acts then and hauls Dean into a new kiss, one in which they are both equal participants. Dean tastes like bad coffee and salt from his tears, but somehow there is no taste more perfect than this.

When they draw apart, Dean is looking at him with a watery smile on his face.

Cas pants, “To be honest with you, I’ve thought about that a lot.”

“Yeah?”

Castiel nods.

Dean leans forward again, but instead of pressing their mouths together, he sets his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder and mumbles, “You’re good people, Cas.”


	5. Think with my Heart

**Chapter Track: Come With Me Now – Kongos**

**_Think with my Heart_ **

“And how, exactly, do you know that I can trust this kid, huh?” Bobby’s gruff voice bites out.

Castiel shifts his cellphone against the shell of his ear while he fills his kettle at his kitchen sink and replies, “I just do, Bobby.”

“Well, that ain’t exactly reassuring, you idjit,” Bobby says, “I can’t just hire every Tom, Dick and Harry with a wrench and sob story. You know that. I don’t have room on my payroll for every damn charity case you got headin’ my way.”

“That isn’t a fair assessment,” defends Castiel. He sets his kettle on his stove and takes down a couple canisters of his tea, trying to decide between a hearty black or a lighter, floral herbal. After a moment of consideration, he leaves the black on the counter and stashes the herbal back among his collection. He goes on into his phone, “You told me that you enjoyed having Kevin work for you and said it was a good thing that I sent him to you.”

“ _Kevin_ I like plenty,” says Bobby, “It’s that Meg girl that stole money outta the register and hightailed it out a’ South Dakota that I got a problem with.”

All right, fine. Meg was perhaps a bout of bad judgment. She was, and probably always will be, the only girl that he’s ever taken to – they slept together in college from time to time, and though they never established a permanent romantic relationship, Castiel always held a little of a candle for her. Thus, when she arrived on his doorstep a year or so ago with a grin on her face and plaid backpack slung over her shoulders, how could he deny her a place to stay?

Castiel knew Meg was good under the hood of a car, a product of living a semi-nomadic lifestyle with her mother and their trailer, and so he asked Bobby to give her employment.

Only a week into Meg working at the yard and shop, she vanished with every bit of cash that Bobby didn’t already have in his safe.

It’s one of the numerous reasons that Castiel feels so isolated – like no one would really want to be his friend, and that they must have an ulterior motive if they claim that they do.

Cas says, feeling less argumentative now that Meg has been thrown into their bickering, “I know…I’ve made some poor judgments of character before. Dean Winchester – he isn’t like Meg, Bobby.”

“Aw, hell, kid,” Bobby says, “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanna know what’s so fuckin’ special about this Dean guy that has you tryin’ to find a job for him. You said you ain’t even known him for that long.”

Castiel sits at his kitchen table. He doesn’t want to explain to Bobby that he met Dean at a strip club and received a lap dance from him, or that after their parent-teacher conference and Dean’s breakdown that they made out on the floor of the teacher’s lounge, or that they laid tangled together for nearly twenty minutes before they decided that it was time to part.

Or that they exchanged cellphone numbers and that Dean texted Castiel goodnight and left Cas smiling all the way until he fell asleep.

“His younger brother is a student in one of my classes,” Cas explains, “Sam is a bright student if occasionally troubled, and Dean recently unfairly lost his first job. He’s his brother’s guardian and they are each other’s only relatives. I’m told that Dean rebuilt his father’s classic car after it was very nearly destroyed.”

Bobby grunts.

“Would you at least agree to let him demonstrate his knowledge?” Castiel asks.

“…I s’pose that’s not unreasonable,” Bobby says, “All right. Fine. But if this Dean character stinks then he ain’t got a job.”

**X**

Dean flexes his fingers on the steering wheel of the Impala. He tries not to feel nervous over having to give this guy a show to get a job, but damn it, everything is resting on this. He has backup applications to a few restaurants and other joints around area just in case he screws this up, but he knows that those places would sure as hell choose a college student over some deadbeat dropout with nothing to show for himself but a GED.

With an exhale, he runs his fingers through his hair, and turns the corner.

Singer Salvage looks pretty innocuous on its own, just like any other yard or repair shop that Dean’s seen in his life. Skeletons of cars and stacks of tires mark the exterior, and the only area that’s paved is the concrete drive up into the repair center.

It’s rougher than a chain repair place, but Dean likes that. He pulls up against the curb outside and steps out, locking his baby before he walks up toward the repair shop. Cas texted him that this Bobby Singer character wanted to meet up with him there and see what Dean can do.

Logically, Dean knows that he’s good with cars, good with his hands in the belly of a machine and the smell of motor oil on him, but with so much depending on his success, his confidence in his ability falters.

When he ducks inside, he knows there’s no one else that could be Bobby Singer besides the bearded dude in a ragged flannel giving Dean the stink-eye with his thick arms crossed over his chest. His eyes drag over Dean, down to his boots and back up to his eyes. After a moment of stare-down, Bobby says, “That’s a nice set a’ wheels that you got there. ’67 Impala, am I right? Castiel told me that you rebuilt her by yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting on the balls of his feet, “My dad ran her into a telephone pole and never touched her after that. How’s it you and Cas know each other? No offense, but you don’t seem like his kind of people.”

“His parents weren’t fond a’ me – that’s for sure,” Bobby says, “Castiel’s older sister Anna used to play with my stepdaughter Jo. When their folks were out on business – which was a lot, mind ya – they stayed with us at our house. The girls didn’t care to have a little guy tag along with them, so Castiel used to pester me n’ my wife about whatever we happened to be doin’. Curious kid. He was about to graduate high school when his parents passed. Me an’ Ellen weren’t about to let some foster family swallow him up, and we had the room with our Jo off at college – so we’re something like family, I guess.”

“Huh,” says Dean, brow furrowing, “What happened to his parents?”

“That’s his business,” Bobby says, “You wanna know then you can go ask him.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, I got a car in this morning that needs seeing to. If you can diagnose the issue and fix her up, then you’ve got yourself a job,” says Bobby, “Tools are all in here and you can use whatever you need. That’s it right there.”

Dean turns to face a tan monstrosity. He frowns at Bobby and says, “Well, your first problem is that it’s one fucking ugly Volvo.”

Bobby snorts and shakes his head. “That may be,” he says, “Some idjit kid bought it off his buddy. Says he has trouble starting her up and when she gets goin’ fast she jerks him around. Almost got himself into a crash, so he brought her to me.”

That sounds familiar. Way back before he dropped out of high school, all his buddies had cars of their own – and they were some shitty, pathetic excuses for vehicles. Dean did repairs pro bono at first, and then after he stopped going to his classes, he asked for money or for trades, usually somebody’s mom’s cookies, or a contraband bottle of whiskey swiped from a parent’s liquor cabinet.

Dean pops the hood, and sure enough his hunch proves to be right. The car is a mess in general, but what desperately needs replacement are the ignition coils, resting rusted and filthy among the other sordid parts. Dean frowns and shakes his head, but sets to work. He grabs a toolbox and undoes the bolts around the coils, pulling them from their slots. It takes him a while to figure out where Bobby keeps fresh ones, but after he gets the hang of poking through the equipment and parts, Dean finds what he’s looking for.

It’s good to be doing something with his hands again. This is the kind of work that he misses sometimes if he thinks too hard on it. He doesn’t mind cooking and he doesn’t mind dancing, but getting his fingers deep in the guts of an engine is what he’s really made for. The feeling of dipping back into his roots, of the familiar, almost makes him smile as he works.

For good measure, he wipes the area around the coil slots down before he sets the fresh ones back in place and screws the bolts back in to secure them. It isn’t a very hard job if you know what you’re doing – he thinks what took the most time was looking around to find the crap that he needed.

Jesus, he hopes he’s right. This poor machine is on her last leg anyway, and if Dean’s repair job didn’t do much to help, he wouldn’t actually be all that surprised.

“Hey, you got the keys for her?” Dean calls.

Bobby glances to Dean from his place in the hood of cherry-red Dodge and says, “Yeah, should be on the key wall. Marked three.”

Dean finds the key on the appropriately labeled hook and climbs into the front seat. He doesn’t bother adjusting where it’s at in the car, since he just wants to check how she starts to see if he at least got something right. When he turns the key, sure enough, the Volvo comes to life without a hitch.

He turns her off and grins.

“Ignition coils, man,” Dean says, “Should run much smoother now.”

Bobby gives him a nod, and a hint of a smile turns up one half of his mouth. He claps Dean on the shoulder and says, “You got yourself a job, kid. We open up seven sharp every day ‘cept Sunday, and you get two days off a week. What days you want?”

Probably one day he knows he won’t be working The Love Club and then one day he knows that he is. Dean answers, “Tuesday and Saturday?”

“You got it,” Bobby says, “Can I expect you here tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean says. He tries not to sound too much like an eager kid, but fails. The relief that washes over him is so palpable, so cool and energizing that he can’t help but be excited. This morning, he thought he might have Sam taken away, and now he knows that he won’t.

“All right,” nods Bobby, “You take care now, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow – and one a’ these days you should get around to tellin’ me how you fixed up your car so nice.”

Dean replies that he will, and they exchange goodbyes one last time before Dean pops into the bathroom to scrub the grime off of his hands and arms before he makes his way back to the Impala. When Dean slides in and hitches his belt over his torso, he takes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans to text:

_10:43 Dean: got the job thanks so much i owe you_

_11:02 Cas: I’m glad._

_11:05 Dean: u wanna come over tonite_

_11:05 Dean: sammys out_

_11:06 Dean: not that u should feel obligated or anything_

_11:06 Cas: I’d like that. Can I get your address?_

The stupid grin on Dean’s face only widens as he types his response.

**X**

Castiel hasn’t been on a date in ages, let alone been invited to have sex. He feels something electric under his skin at the prospect of seeing Dean outside of a work setting, of seeing Dean without his clothes but being tangled up together and in the sheets.

Cas also knows that he himself isn’t much to look at, but he tries to push that thought out of his mind as he listens to his phone give him directions in a broken, robotic female voice. The Winchesters live near to the high school, in one of the apartment buildings that house an occasional twenty-something, but mostly lower-class families.

Though Castiel is by no means a wealthy man, seeing Dean and Sam’s apartment building makes him grateful for what he does have: his little house in a quiet neighborhood, functional heating and air conditioning, up-to-date appliances and plumbing…judging by the outside of the building, the Winchesters don’t have any of that. It’s a dirty brick building, and right alongside the guest parking spaces sits a fragrant, overflowing dumpster coated in spray paint.

There is no buzzer that lets Castiel in, just an unlocked door in need of a paint job.

When he reaches the Winchesters’ third-floor apartment, Cas takes a moment to collect himself. He knows inevitably that he’ll somehow say something awkward and anxiously hopes that Dean likes the way that he looks, though he isn’t certain that this will be the case.

Cas only has to knock on the apartment door twice before it opens to a wicked grin. Dean is casually dressed in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and jeans with holes worn through the knees. His feet are bare, and Castiel can’t help but note that they are rather nice-looking feet, just like the rest of Dean.

And as Cas takes his first step into the apartment, a dog noses at him excitedly, a wild wag in its tail. Castiel smiles and bends down to scratch the dog behind the ears as Dean says, “That’s Daisy.”

“Hello, Daisy,” Castiel says, and the use of her name earns him a slobbery lick to his cheek. He laughs, which seems only to encourage her, until Dean commands her to stay down. Daisy decides to bend Dean’s rule and flops onto her side, nudging Castiel with a paw, apparently requesting a belly rub. He obliges. Daisy’s tail thumps against the carpet.

“Hey,” Dean says, “You want a drink or anything? I got beer, or I could brew some coffee. The machine’s a piece of crap, but uh. You know. Offer’s out there.”

“Beer is fine,” Castiel says. He stands at last and surveys the apartment. It’s a shoebox-sized living space, though the Winchesters seem to have made it their own in small ways. A handmade quilt sits draped over one arm of a worn sofa, and a handful of music and movie posters are tacked onto the white walls. Cardboard boxes from their move remain stacked against the wall, some opened, but several still taped closed.

Dean catches him looking as he hands Cas his beer and says, “Yeah, we haven’t really had time to settle all the way. Sam’s had the brunt of the unpacking work since I’ve been working so much…you look really nice.”

Cas feels his face heat. He hadn’t been expecting that. He decided that he wouldn’t agonize over his clothing and opted for jeans and a button-down, with comfortable loafers. He slips the shoes off just so he won’t have to look at Dean when he says, “Thank you. You also look nice.”

Dean pulls Cas along and urges him to sit on the couch so that they’re side by side, close enough to mingle in each other’s body heat. Daisy looks tempted to join them, but Dean gives her a look, and she retreats to a doggy bed positioned beside the television. After a beat, Dean drapes his arm over Castiel’s shoulders and says, “Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” asks Castiel, cocking his head.

“I dunno,” says Dean, “Whatever you think is important.”

Castiel fidgets with his beer can and finally pulls the tab to take his first sip. It isn’t very good beer, but it does loosen him up a little after another tentative couple of drinks. He says, “Well. I like to read. I like tea. My sister lives in Dubai. My favorite color is green. I’ve always wanted a pet but I worry about being able to take care of it. In college I briefly believed myself bisexual and slept with a girl that later robbed Bobby. I, um. I like writing with colored pens. I got in trouble once in the third grade because I told my teacher that the plural of deer is not deers and even though I was right, she sent me home with a note to my parents. They never saw it.”

As he babbles, Dean shifts, taking Castiel’s beer from his fingers and setting it aside on an end table. Gently, he guides Castiel lower so that his back presses down on the couch cushions, and he’s looking up at a boyishly smiling Dean, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Dean leans down and Cas expects a kiss, but instead Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s cheek and down to his throat. At a nip to the skin there, Castiel lets out a soft sigh.

Dean says right against his ear, “I like to read, but I don’t have much time for it these days,” – he kisses along the edge of Castiel’s jaw – “I think tea is gross, but I love coffee,” – kisses behind Castiel’s ear and then sucks the lobe into his mouth, toying with the soft skin between his teeth – “I took ballet classes ‘til I was five ‘cause I told my mom I wanted to, but stopped ‘cause I got bored. I don’t know how to rollerblade,” – he lets his lips fall to Cas’ forehead, and starts kissing down, over his eyelids and apples of his cheeks and tip of his nose – “I slept with a Han Solo action figure until I was thirteen. He still has a spot on my windowsill,” – Castiel thinks at last that Dean will really kiss him, but Dean just applies a hot, heavy kiss to the very corner of Cas’ mouth instead and goes on – “You are one of the weirdest…coolest dudes I’ve ever met. I’mma kiss you now.”

“Please,” Castiel whines.

Dean covers Cas’ mouth with his own. In instants it’s heavier that any kiss that Castiel has ever had before. Dean’s fingers stroke back through his hair and tug up to bring Cas up to kiss him harder. And then, Dean rolls his hips against Castiel’s, and he feels Dean’s erection against his own with an intense spark of pleasure.

Castiel loops his legs around Dean’s waist to push into the sensation, urging them into a lazy rhythm that leaves them both panting. When they break apart, Castiel sees a sheen of sweat on Dean’s forehead, and leans up to kiss it away.

“Maybe,” Dean starts, and then swallows, “Bedroom?”

Cas tries to find his voice but instead all that comes out is a strangled noise and a frantic nod. At Castiel’s consent, Dean pulls them both up onto his feet, points at the dog and says, “Daisy, _stay_ ,” and yanks Castiel into the leftmost bedroom. It’s a small room, and Dean has a mattress in lieu of an entire bed. However, as Castiel discovers when he lands back on it, it’s a comfortable mattress indeed.

Dean straddles Castiel’s waist and pulls his black t-shirt over his head. Even though Castiel has seen Dean topless before, the context makes it seem new and exciting. He’s so _close_ , with his freckled, broad shoulders and the barely-there softness to his belly. He only notices that Dean is looking at him expectantly when Cas feels the light touch of fingers reaching underneath his shirt. He allows Dean to pull it off of him.

“Damn,” Dean says.

Cas’ mouth is dry.

“Am I…adequate?” he asks, panting, and fears Dean’s answer.

Dean’s brows furrow and he says, “Adequate? Cas, you’re fuckin’ amazing.” To illustrate his point, Dean surges down to take one of Castiel’s nipples into his mouth, rolling the sensitive skin between his teeth. Cas can’t help but arch into Dean’s body, squirming. He moans when Dean moves to pay the same attention to the other nipple, and tangles his hands in Dean’s hair, pulling. Dean lets out a deep, pleasured groan when Castiel tugs hard, so he does it again, jerking Dean’s head up so that their mouths meet.

“Fuck,” mutters Dean and pulls up. He starts to fiddle with the fastenings on Cas’ jeans and stands up just long enough to divest him of both those and his boxer briefs, casting them across the room. In moments, Dean’s own things follow suit, and _oh, wow._

Dean looks so incredible. He has a wild look in his eye, his hair already mussed, and his cock hanging thick and heavy between strong thighs. Castiel whimpers, and Dean grins. He leans over to apply his lips to Castiel’s jaw, and then reaches over the edge of the mattress. The rustle of a plastic bag prefaces the pop of a cap. Castiel tries to spread his legs to accommodate Dean’s fingers, but when Dean’s hand is suitably coated, he doesn’t move to finger Castiel.

Instead, he reaches behind _himself._

“Shit,” Dean says. His pupils are huge, his smile now slack and lazy as he rocks back on his own hand. He bends at the waist and peppers kisses over Cas’ chest while he opens himself, and says, “Feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t wait for that to be you. Got a nice dick, you know. I wanna ride it.”

Castiel lets out an embarrassing noise and says, “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to come before we get to the good part.”

Dean sketches a brow. He asks, “You could come just from dirty talk?”

“It certainly feels like it,” mutters Castiel.

With a chuckle, Dean stoops down to kiss the scowl off of Castiel’s face. After what seems like ages, then, Dean finally scoots back. He watches, fascinated, as Dean rips open a condom packet and rolls it down over Cas’ erection.

Castiel can feel Dean’s heat. He’s so close to being inside him. Of their own accord, Cas’ hips buck up and his erection bumps between Dean’s legs. Dean cups Cas’ cheek and strokes the pad of his thumb over his kiss-swollen lips.

“Eager, huh?” Dean says.

“Damn it, Dean,” Castiel says, “Please.”

“Please, what?” Dean asks, an infuriating smirk on his face.

“ _Ride me_ ,” Cas barks. The command in his voice works – Dean shudders, and then scoots himself forward, just a little, kneeling in the mattress with his legs spread wide over Castiel. He grips Cas’ cock at the base and then –

Good God.

Dean’s eyes shutter closed as he takes Castiel’s cock inside him inch by ever-tighter inch. When he drops down toward the end, Castiel gasps, and reaches out to cling onto Dean’s waist. Above him, Dean’s eyes remain closed, his lips parted and his breath heavy.

Castiel strokes a hand over Dean’s back and asks, “How are you?”

At that, Dean’s eyes crack open and he says, “Christ, you feel awesome,” and then starts to rock back.

At first, the movement is slow, torturously so. But then, Dean catches Castiel’s gaze and starts to fuck himself back harder, lifting his body higher and slamming it down with more force. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by soft moans and whines, and Dean’s reel of dirty talk, quiet and broken.

“Cock’s so nice,” Dean says, “Love how you fill me up. Fuck.”

Dean’s hands press against Castiel’s shoulders, both keeping him pinned to the mattress and being used for leverage so that Dean can ride him, bouncing in his lap with a knit between his brows and desperate noises of need and satisfaction slipping from his mouth. Castiel feels the build of his orgasm in his abdomen and starts to roll up to meet each movement of Dean’s body. He takes Dean’s erection in hand and starts to stroke, and Dean keens.

“Jesus,” Dean says, “Holy fu-f-fuckin’ –”

And like that, Dean paints Castiel’s abdomen in come. The spasms around Castiel’s own erection have him on the brink, and even though Dean has come he keeps his movement, keeps riding, keeps fucking himself onto Castiel’s cock. A sharp inhale warns for Castiel’s orgasm. He slams up into Dean and the pleasure rocks his body, more powerful and frantic than he’s ever felt it before.

Dean collapses beside Castiel onto the mattress and pants, “Well, shit.”

“You liked it?” Cas asks, hope in his tone.

Dean eyes him and presses a sloppy kiss to Cas’ cheek. He says, “You gotta give yourself some credit, dude. That was _awesome_. Son of a bitch. We can do that again, right?”

“Right now?” Castiel says. He doesn’t think he has the stamina for _that_.

Dean socks his shoulder and says, “No, not right now. I just mean – like. I guess, I wanna see you again. Or like, see you in general. Maybe. If you’re okay with it.”

Red rises in Dean’s cheeks.

He’s nervous.

Castiel closes the space between them to reassure Dean with a slower, languid kiss before he says, “I would very much like to ‘see’ you, Dean.” He makes air quotes around ‘see’, which Dean appears to find amusing, because he laughs so hard that his belly jumps.

“Don’t ever change,” Dean whispers.

“I won’t,” Cas replies.

**X**

Sam wakes with a crick in his neck and a goofy smile on his face. Last night he and Jess hung out – they didn’t really go anywhere, just to a park, where they sat on the swings and had a competition to jump the farthest. Sam won, but Jess claims he has an unfair advantage because of his “long-ass legs.”

Afterward, they made out in the grass.

And then after that, in Jess’ backseat again.

And after that, Sam pushed his hand under her skirt and pulled down her panties and he pressed his fingers insider her, thumbing gently at her clit as the internet suggested he do. Turns out the internet was right on that front. He got to feel her come around his fingers and she kissed him like he was water in the middle of the desert. He told her that she didn’t have to reciprocate, since he did a bad job of giving back last time.

Jess told him to shut up and she put her mouth on him.

 _Should’ve known what they say about big feet is true_ , she’d laughed. Sam politely told her that it was okay if it didn’t all fit but apparently Jess took this as a challenge and swallowed him down, using her hand to stroke what she couldn’t press inside her mouth. She swallowed when he came.

Maybe it’s corny, but as Sam stares sleepily up at his bedroom ceiling, he thinks he liked the part after the sex stuff the best, when Jess laid her head against his shoulder and he looped his arms around her. They didn’t kiss or talk or anything, just enjoyed being pressed to each other, listening to their heartbeats, chests rising and falling with quiet breaths.

Except Jess’ car is still small and Sam is still not, so they had to shift when Sam’s legs started to cramp and his neck got stiff.

And then, on top of it all, there were weird shoes at the door when he slipped into the apartment just after two in the morning and Daisy padded over to greet him.

Sam suspects that he isn’t the only Winchester that got action last night.

Running his fingers through his hair, Sam shifts his legs over the side of the bed and yawns. When he steps across his room and opens the door, the smell of coffee fills his senses. He opens his mouth to ask Dean if there’s enough for him to grab a mug, but it definitely isn’t Dean that’s standing at the coffee maker, even if the dude is also definitely wearing a pair of Dean’s underwear.

The creak of Sam’s door catches his attention, and the guy turns around.

_Holy shit._

“Um,” Sam manages, face coloring, “H-Hi, Mr. Novak.”

Mr. Novak looks about as traumatized to see Sam in the kitchen as Sam is to see him, but he recovers fast enough to say, “Perhaps when I am here with your brother you could refer to me as ‘Castiel.’”

Sam swallows and says, “Uh. Okay. Sure…Castiel.”

“There’s plenty of coffee if you’d like some,” Mr. Novak – Castiel – says.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “Great. I’d love some.”

Castiel-slash-Mr. Novak gives a nod to this and pulls out one of the kitchen chairs, lowering himself onto it. Sam tries not to think about what it means when he notices that Castiel doesn’t wince or flinch or anything when he sits down. What the hell did his brother and his teacher _do_ , exactly? He’s not prepared to handle this situation. No one ever told him that moving to Sioux Falls may come with an amazing girl, but also that his Lit teacher would be…doing something with his brother.

Sam pours himself a mug of coffee. He considers making an escape back to his bedroom, but when Daisy pushes her head under his hand to get her ears scratched, he knows that he’s doomed. With a soft sigh, he sits across from his teacher. He thumbs the rim of his mug and says, “So, where’s Dean?”

“Asleep,” Castiel replies with a sidelong glance at Dean’s bedroom door, “He seemed like he needed it.”

“He does,” Sam says. He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out as sharply as it does, and Castiel’s brows lift at the tone.

Sam clears his throat and decides to say, “Look. I know you’re my teacher and everything, but I am so serious when I tell you that if you do anything to hurt my brother you will regret it. Okay?” He wonders if he should feel bad for saying that to a teacher, because he can’t find any guilt or embarrassment in him. He means it. Dean is his only family, and Sam would do just about anything to make sure Dean knows that Sam has his back.

Castiel’s brows furrow and he asks, “Are you giving me the ‘father of the boyfriend’ speech?”

Sam shrugs, “If you wanna call it that. Seriously, though. Do _not_ mess up my brother.” He glares.

“I won’t,” Castiel says. His voice is soft, and even though he isn’t looking Sam in the eye – instead gazing down at his black coffee with a weird look on his face – he thinks that Castiel might be telling the truth.

Before Sam can respond, the sound of hinges has both of them blinking over at Dean. For the first time in ages, Dean doesn’t look exhausted or ready to keel over. Instead, a loopy smile occupies his face. He yawns and crosses the apartment to them, ruffling Sam’s hair. Then he reaches Castiel and leans down just far enough to brush his lips over Sam’s teacher’s forehead.

Sam does not know how to feel about looking at this.

Dean straightens and asks, “So, what’d I miss?”


	6. Between the Sunshine and the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one! Now that finals are over, updates will be a lot more steady. 
> 
> Also, warning for gore.

**Chapter Track: Some Better Day – I Am Kloot**

**_Between the Sunshine and the Rain_ **

The TV is on in the background while Sam works through the set of problems that his calculus teacher assigned. Until recently, Sam hated background noise, but apparently it helps his charge – Ben Braeden – get to sleep. Said charge breathes evenly beside Sam, curled up against the arm of the couch with one of their mom’s old quilts draped over him. Sam likes Ben, and he likes Lisa too. He just wishes he knew what job it is that has Dean and Lisa out until unholy hours of the morning.

Outside, rain pounds down on Sioux Falls, beating against the window glass in waves with the wind, and blurring the light from the streetlamps dotting the sides of the road. His bike ride to school tomorrow will probably be extra-muddy, which Sam can’t say that he’s looking forward to.

Muddiness aside, though, the tempo of the storm is otherwise peaceful, filling in emptiness beyond the babble of news casters on the television screen. The apartment still smells like the Kraft Mac & Cheese that Sam made for himself and Ben. That combined with the blanket around his shoulders makes the tiny, sordid apartment feel like a kind of home, just barely.

A sound erupts from the TV, and one of the hosts of the late-night show announces, “ _We have a breaking story, folks. A second teenager has been found dead, just moments ago. Justine is on scene, and hopefully she’ll be able to clue us in on what is happening here. To you, Justine._ ”

The picture switches to the gloomy image of a woman in a pink windbreaker, clutching a microphone tight against her chest with the hood of the jacket drawn up around her head while rain washes down over everything. Behind her is the _park_ , again – with sirens flashing and crisscrosses of yellow crime scene tape wound around the trunks of trees.

“ _It’s a nasty scene, John. Thus far the police have not spoken as to whether or not they know the identity of the boy, or the manner in which he was killed. All we know for certain is that this is another case of a young person murdered in a short span of time. It seems like the killer took advantage of the rain – I’m hearing a lot thrown around about evidence washed away. It’s almost a miracle that the boy’s body didn’t get swept down the creek. Our channel’s very own Susan Burns spotted the teenager. Had she been there only moments later, the water would have pushed him downstream without a doubt._ ”

Sam swallows the knot in his throat. Calc homework forgotten, he keeps his eyes trained on the television. The news people know jack squat, of course – they’re stretching out what little information they do have to keep viewership – but they do know that it’s a boy between sixteen and eighteen, and that his bloody t-shirt caught on jagged tree roots against the creek.

After a few more minutes, Sam can’t weather the information any longer, and he turns the TV off with a flick of the remote. The quick, skipping beat to his heart has him squirming. He wants to talk to somebody, and usually that would be Dean. But Dean isn’t here, and he never answers his phone when he’s at the mysterious second job.

So Sam texts Jess.

_11:02 Sam: Did you see the news?_

_11:02 Jess: My mom just came up and told me_

_11:03 Jess: Do you think the two are connected?_

_11:03 Sam: I dunno. The news hasn’t said anything about how the dude died. Don’t serial killers usually have a pattern?_

_11:04 Jess: Yeah they do. I dunno. I’m pretty freaked_

_11:04 Jess: Like what are we supposed to do_

_11:04 Jess: I feel like I’m just sitting and waiting to be next you know_

_11:05 Sam: Yeah_

_11:05 Sam: Me too tbh_

_11:06 Jess: It would take Bigfoot to take you down baby_

Sam feels himself blush at Jess’ use of ‘baby’.

_11:06 Sam: Maybe_

_11:06 Sam: But I’m just some kid_

_11:06 Sam: And you didn’t see what I did_

_11:06 Sam: That girl was torn apart_

_11:07 Sam: I’m not even sure it’s possible for a human to do what I saw_

_11:07 Jess: What was it then Dracula_

_11:08 Sam: No I just mean it was really bad. I’m scared too. I guess all we can do is look out for each other_

_11:09 Jess: You’re the best Sam._

Sam sets aside his phone at that, a tiny kernel of reassurance planted deep in his gut. With a sigh, he looks down at the half-completed calculus homework in his lap. Whether or not there’s some freak – or freaks – on the loose, he has to get this crap done. He puts the news out of his mind and fills it with math instead, letting the numbers soothe him into a better place.

When he finishes, he sets his textbook and notes down on the coffee table in front of him. In lieu of retreating to his bedroom, Sam stays on the couch to drift off. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Ben alone out here, even if they’re in a locked apartment and Ben’s too young to match with the ages of the victims.

He dreams, though the images are vague and play out under a film of fog. The sound of keys turning in the lock of the front door wakes him. Sam rubs his eyes as Dean and Lisa quietly slip in. As they approach, he can smell liquor and sweat on both of them. Maybe they work at a club? Sam is too tired to speculate further than that.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, “Why’re you out here?”

Sam answers honestly, “Another kid was killed. I watched it on the news. I just…felt better staying with Ben.”

Lisa smiles at this, though a crease of worry nestles between her brows. She leans over the back of the couch and presses a kiss to Sam’s cheek. She says, “You’re a pretty cool kid. Was he good for you?”

Sam says, “Yeah. We just did homework and watched TV and stuff. He passed out at like, eight.”

“That’s good,” Lisa says, maybe to herself more than anyone else. She shifts her attention to her son. Instead of waking him, she just peels back the quilt and lifts her toddler into her arms. Ben doesn’t even twitch at the movement. At the door, Lisa thanks both Sam and Dean again, and Dean half-hugs her goodbye, careful not to jostle sleeping Ben.

When the apartment door clicks closed, Dean lets out a long breath. He says, “What happened? To that kid?”

“Dunno,” Sam says, “The news didn’t have much actual news. They found him in the creek.”

Dean frowns and shakes his head. He asks, “You remember any of your taekwondo from when you were little?”

“Vaguely,” answers Sam, “I don’t know if that’ll be any help if there’s a crazy frigging murderer on my ass, though.”

“Guess we’ll have to gear up with self-defense stuff,” murmurs Dean, “This crap is wiggin’ me out, man. Figures I’d choose to move to a place with a teenage murder problem.”

Sam opens his mouth to tell Dean that it isn’t his fault, but decides that the endeavor would be fruitless and quiets. Awkward silence settles over them, and neither he nor Dean makes a move to speak. Finally, Sam breaks the eye contact between them and says through a yawn, “Better get to bed.”

“Yeah,” is all that Dean musters in response.

Sam gathers up his calculus junk and mutters a goodnight to his brother before he slips into his bedroom. He tucks the books into his backpack before he sits down at the edge of his mattress. In the dull light from the streetlamps outside, Sam’s pocketknife glints. Without a second thought, Sam grabs the knife.

He sleeps with it under his pillow.

**X**

A handful of days later finds Dean elbows-deep in the engine of a Corvette, filthy and sweating up a storm under his cotton t-shirt. He’s only just narrowed the root of the issue down to a jacked-up fuel filter when Bobby swaggers into the shop with a couple of grease-stained paper bags and announces, “Got burgers, kids!”

Kevin and Charlie surface from their own work, hurrying past Dean to get the first crack at the food. When Dean peels his gloves off to join them, he discovers that the paper-wrapped burgers are marked by name in sharpie. Extra onions and swiss for Charlie and a double cheeseburger for Kevin - Bobby hands Dean one labeled with DEAN in tidy script, a hand that Dean knows doesn’t belong to Bobby (whose own writing is almost impossible to decipher at times).

“Ellen didn’t know what you liked, so she went with a bacon cheeseburger,” Bobby says, “Hope you ain’t a vegetarian or nothin’, ‘cause that would be embarrassing.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, unwrapping the burger. It smells like heaven. He says, “You can tell Ellen that she was right on the money.”

When Dean bites in, he moans around the burger. Bobby chuckles.

“You’re off to a real good start, you know,” he says.

Dean swallows, “Yeah? Thanks, I guess.” He can feel his face heat up against his will, and he breaks eye contact, deciding to stare down at his boots instead as he grabs at the back of his neck.

“Don’t give me none of that ‘I guess’ crap, boy,” Bobby says, stern again, “You’re good at what you do. I’m real glad I listened to Castiel this time around.”

“That’s nice of you to say, man,” Dean replies. Damn. He’s not good at taking compliments. He never has been. He always feels like a shitty copy machine trying to take in paper and just crunching it up in the feeder slot instead of doing his job. Plus Kevin and Charlie are only a few feet away, and he’d be kidding himself if he thought that they weren’t listening in.

“Boy,” Bobby says, “You look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”

Dean does.

“I never met someone that’s so crap to himself,” says Bobby, “I know we don’t know each other real well yet, but I can tell you that I do know that you’re doing a damn lot more than most kids your age ever have to do. Twenty three’s an age for fuckin’ off to find yourself, but you set that aside to take care a’ family. I admire that. So stop bein’ such an idjit and give yourself some credit, you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Dean says. He feels a little like a child getting a lecture, but for some reason that makes him feel good, like he’s being talked to by the daddy that he should have had, and not the daddy that he really got.

“And take a damn compliment,” Bobby says, “You think I hand those out like flyers to the goddamn charity ball? No, I do not.”

“Sorry,” Dean says. To prevent himself from having to say anything else, he takes another couple of bites of the burger. It makes him feel a little less like a moron to have something good sit on his stomach.

Bobby shakes his head, and something in this expression softens as he unwraps what Dean thinks is a burger, but turns out to be some kind of chicken something. He must make a face, because Bobby explains, “Yeah, I’d like to have a burger, but my wife’s on my ass about ‘bein’ good to my heart’ or whatever. Still tastes good, just not as good as some red meat would.”

Kevin and Charlie finish their meals first and wander back to their respective work areas. When Dean finishes his burger, he tosses the paper wrapper in the trash and makes to join them, but Bobby stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He asks, “How’s your brother doing, with all this murder business?”

“He’s pretty spooked,” Dean says, half-smiling at the concern in Bobby’s voice. The man may be tough as rocks on the outside, but Dean is pretty sure that underneath all the gruff curses and shouting that Bobby Singer is all gooey inside.

Bobby nods, “I think everyone is pretty spooked. Don’t get me wrong – Sioux Falls ain’t sparkling as far as crime goes, but these are a whole new level of messed up. And what with the police scramblin’ to figure out if we’ve got a serial murderer on our hands or just one crazy and a copycat, seems like everything is goin’ to hell.”

The police department only yesterday released more information on the second death. The kid was named Elliot, and he too was a junior at Thomas Jefferson High School. He’d only just turned seventeen the week before, and his parents bought him his first car.

Elliot had two 9mm bullets stuck in his body, one in the chest and the other directly between his eyebrows. The casings were nowhere to be found. The bullets didn’t disturb folks as much as what the cops found when they peeled off the kid’s blood-soaked t-shirt. The number “2” was sliced from collarbone to navel, bleeding; somebody carved up the guy while he was alive, made him suffer before they shot him.

And “2” what? The second murder? Or a second killer? Whatever the case, Dean’s done all he can to make sure Sam’ll be safe. He blew an entire night’s tips on a combat utility knife with a sabre grind, something strong and deadly that’ll give Sam an advantage if he needs one. He can’t take it on school grounds and Dean gets that, but it still puts him on edge knowing that Sam may not be safe.

Dean exhales and says, “I bought him a knife, better blade than his old pocketknife.”

“That ain’t a bad idea,” says Bobby, “and I could teach him to shoot, if you want.”

Dean replies, “Sam’s already a pretty good shot, but if you don’t mind it, I think he’d like a place to keep his skills sharp. Can’t really go the range all that often since we mostly don’t have the cash.”

“A’course, Sam’s welcome any time,” Bobby says. He pauses, studying Dean closely, and then out of the blue: “I gotta ask this, boy. Exactly what are your intentions toward Castiel? He may not be blood, but he is my family, and I don’t want to see him heartbroken over misunderstood desires.”

Dean’s heart stutters over its next beat. Hell, he’s already getting the dad talk. Next thing you know, Bobby’ll be chasing him outta the salvage yard with a sawed-off shotgun and shouting at him to never screw with his kid again. Dean scrambles to find an appropriate answer, and ends up stammering out, “I, um. I don’t know,” – Bobby’s glare deepens – “I just. I like Cas a lot, but I got no idea what’s down the road. I’m not psychic, Bobby.”

Bobby harrumphs and says, “End of this week, Castiel is coming over for Sunday dinner. You and your brother will be joining us. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s more like it,” Bobby says, and turns on his heel, leaving Dean to dive into engines again.

**X**

Castiel makes a noise of complaint as Ellen tries to comb his hair into submission. They’ve been at it for a good ten minutes already, but Cas’ hair continues to spring back into chaos no matter how long Ellen holds her hairbrush under the bathroom tap and tries to wet it down.

“I am a grown man,” Cas finally protests.

“Bully for you,” says Ellen, “You’re a grown man who’s introducing his boyfriend to his folks, and by God you _will_ look nice for it.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t think that Dean cares if my hair lays flat or not,” Castiel says testily.

Ellen eyes him and says, “Have it your way, y’big baby. I’m just glad that you’re finally bringing somebody home. How was it that you two met again?”

Castiel sincerely hopes that his face does not give away the embarrassment that he feels. It hasn’t been long at all since Gabriel and Balthazar dragged Cas kicking and screaming to a strip club for his birthday, where he felt his insides flutter and shift when he saw a scantily-clad man in a cowboy hat. Now he mostly sees Dean in t-shirts and jeans, relaxing in front of the television and swapping movie suggestions, or nude and tucked up against Castiel with a lazy grin on his face.

The time to be mulling over Dean’s nudity is not when he is inches away from the woman that he considers his mother.

“Sam – his brother – is one of my students,” he explains, “We met on parent-teacher conference night. He’s Sam’s guardian.”

“No kiddin’,” Ellen says, more a statement than anything, “How old is this guy?”

“Twenty three,” answers Castiel.

“Damn,” Ellen murmurs, “A teenager’s a helluva lot of responsibility for somebody so young.”

“I know,” replies Cas, “but family is Dean’s whole world.”

“That’s a real nice thing to hear,” Ellen softly says, “Real nice.”

On that note, Ellen fusses with his hair again until it’s up to her standards. She pops her thumb in her mouth and rubs at a spot on his cheek to clean something off that Castiel is almost one hundred percent certain was never there to begin with. He complains, “I don’t understand why this is so important.”

“Because it’s important _to you_ , wise guy,” says Ellen, “so it’s important to me n’ Bobby, too.”

In that, Castiel can’t find anything to complain about. The sarcastic remarks poised on the tip of his tongue die in his mouth, where he swallows them back into a crooked smile. He replies this time with honesty, “I’m glad that you think so.”

“I know so, boy.”

Warmth spreads low in his belly at the words. For the first time in a long time, Castiel feels that his life perhaps moving with an appropriate trajectory, that he isn’t floundering around in loneliness and expensive tea. He’s in a relationship with a kind, big-hearted and unfairly handsome man, and while he recognizes that he and Dean are comfortably in the middle of their honeymoon period, something in his gut tells him that this is right; this is good.

Dean and Sam arrive no more than twenty minutes later, as Castiel sets the table with the good dishes. He feels like a teenager again, seventeen and giddy about sharing two parts of his world and fusing them into one whole. When the doorbell rings, he tries not to run to it like an excited dog, but fails. He’s breathless when he wrenches open the door, and the remaining wind in his lungs whooshes away when he meets Dean’s eyes.

“Hi,” Dean says. He and Sam are both dressed to impress in tidy, ironed button-downs and slacks. Sam wears a tie, but Dean keeps his shirt open at the throat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Despite the casual nature of Dean’s Sunday best, he looks a little not-himself in clothing with little sign of wear or love.

“Hello,” Castiel says back, “Sam, Dean. I was just setting the table.” He steers them from the foyer to the dining room, where he parks Dean in front of Ellen and introduces, “Ellen, this is Dean.”

Ellen pulls back from the kitchen counter with a knitted potholder in her grip. She looks Dean up and down before she remarks, “Well, ain’t he a cute one.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. He says, “That’s kind of you to say so, ma’am.”

“You can call me Ellen,” she says. Castiel peels away from them to take down the rest of the dishes and finish the task of arranging the table settings. He hears Ellen shout for Bobby to come downstairs and that the meal is ready. A beat later, she tells Castiel to “sit his butt down”, which he obeys without question. Dean and Sam sit on the opposite side of the table as Castiel. He wishes that Dean were closer, but he can make do from here. There’s nothing quite like a friendly game of footsie, after all.

Ellen flits in and out of the dining room with hot homemade dishes – meatloaf and green bean casserole, a basket of rolls from scratch, potatoes baked in the oven instead of fried (“For your _heart_ , Robert Singer.”) – and Cas’ stomach grumbles in response to the symphony of delicious smells wafting up to meet them.

As soon as Ellen settles in her seat, Dean asks, “Do you guys say grace?”

“We can, if that’s somethin’ you’d like,” Bobby says.

“Dean was asking to be polite,” Castiel interjects, “I don’t believe that he and Sam are religious.” He gives a gentle nudge to Dean’s foot with his own.

Just barely, he sees a smile flicker to life on Dean’s face. Without saying grace, they dig into their food, Ellen serving the Winchesters heaping helpings of supper before she moves onto Castiel, Bobby and herself. For a while, the only thing filling the silence is the clink of silverware against china, and the satisfied noises of people tearing into a good meal.

It’s about as awkward as he expects it to be, filled with questions toward Dean like “How long has it just been you and your brother?” and “What made you choose Sioux Falls?” Dean looks uncomfortable when the questions are asked, but takes them in stride and replies. Castiel can tell even with his rudimentary knowledge of Dean’s spectrum of emotion that the affair makes Dean nervous.

As soon as Dean cleans his plate, he asks, “Excuse me, but could I use your restroom?”

“Sure thing,” Ellen says, “Just turn that corner and it’ll be the first door on your left.”

Dean is only gone for a handful of seconds before Cas clears his throat and announces, “I’m going to…yes,” and stands, following Dean. He knocks on the bathroom door just in case Dean truly had to go, but Castiel suspects that Dean needed a moment for himself.

“It’s me,” he says.

The door unlocks, and Dean’s tired face greets him.

“Hey,” says Dean.

Castiel smiles, hooks his fingers through the belt loops on Dean’s slacks, and yanks him in for a hearty kiss. No sooner have their lips touched than Dean’s tongue is sliding against the roof of Castiel’s mouth, and they stumble back against the bathroom sink, leaning on it for leverage.

“ _A-HMM_.”

Dean and Castiel jerk apart. On the other side of the door frame, Bobby stands in the hallway with his thick arms crossed over his chest and one brow high on his forehead. Instead of commenting on the fact that he’s found his surrogate son and that son’s boyfriend attached at the mouth and sporting the beginnings of erections in their pants, Bobby just says, “You keep up with that and you’re gonna miss the peach pie.” He doesn’t bother staying to hear their response, just turns and marches back toward the dining room like nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

“Pie?” Dean echoes.

“I told Ellen how you like it,” Cas says, catching his lower lip between his teeth. He can feel his face color, but when he looks over, Dean is smiling.

“It’s cool to be thought of,” says Dean.

“I do what I can,” Castiel responds, and then asks, “Are you okay?”

Dean releases a long breath before he says, “Yeah, I’m all right. I’ve just never had anyone’s parents be fans of mine. Don’t wanna screw things up for you, you know?”

“You won’t,” Castiel promises, “We should go back out. It would be a shame for us to miss out on pie and ice cream.”

Dean cracks another, less assured smile. He wraps one arm around Castiel’s waist and reels him in. For a while, Dean just holds their bodies close together and rests his chin on the top of Cas’ head – so much for Ellen’s effort in getting it to look like he didn’t just roll out of a porn video.

“You’re awesome,” Dean finally says, and pecks a kiss to Cas’ forehead before he lets him go.

As he and Dean rejoin the others and Ellen starts doling out slices of warm, gooey peach pie, Castiel can’t help but think of how much has changed in so little time. His once black and white, routine life has burst into Technicolor, painted with Dean’s laugh and rough palms and gentle touch. It almost seems too good to be true.

While a kernel of happiness has finally wiggled its way into Castiel’s life, the rest of Sioux Falls is falling apart at the seams, spitting out bloodied children and no evidence to follow. Castiel feels almost as if he made a deal with the Devil, at long last having something he’s desired…while his students drop all around him.


	7. Hope Everything is All Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so sorry_ that this took so long to update. For some reason I'm in one hell of a writing rut and I am trying to claw my way out of it, but alas. Hopefully the next update will not take nearly as long!

**Chapter Track: Mr. Grieves – Pixies**

**_Hope Everything is All Right_ **

Sometimes, like now, it’s hard to look at Mr. Novak – because Sam’s traitorous brain now flips back to Mr. Novak getting all kissy-faced and cuddly with Dean, which is gross. Mega-gross. It’s like if he had parents to watch smooching each other and feel weirded out by, except kind of worse. Dean’s like a dad and his brother, and Mr. Novak is, well…Mr. Novak. His quiet, reasonable AP Lit teacher, that also happens to be boinking Sam’s brother.

He thinks he might have _heard_ them the other night. Mostly it just sounded like a strange, breathy conversation and then Dean saying something that sounded a lot like _shut up or Sam might hear you_. Too late on that front, he supposes.

And then there’s the awkward transition Sam makes between _Castiel_ , the guy that hangs out on his couch and bickers over beers about Star Trek with Dean, and _Mr. Novak_ , his buttoned-up, reserved teacher that’s all seriousness and business. It’s difficult to believe that they’re the same person, but it’s even harder to separate one from the other once you know that they’re there.

From beside him, Ruby flicks a paper football at Sam and chuckles under her breath when it hits his shoulder. He rolls his eyes and, when Mr. Novak turns his attention back to the whiteboard at the front of the room, flips her off and launches it back.

“Mr. Winchester and Ms. Waites,” Mr. Novak says, and turns to narrow his eyes at them, “Is there something that you’d like to share with the class?”

“We’re good,” Ruby says.

“See that it remains that way,” he replies.

Jess thinks it’s weird that Mr. Novak-slash-Castiel still treats Sam like any other student when they’re within the classroom, but secretly, Sam is relieved. He doesn’t think he’d be able to shoulder the guilt if Mr. Novak ever tilted grades in Sam’s favor or allowed misbehavior willy-nilly. Fortunately, he doesn’t think his teacher could handle that guilt, either.

In the top right corner of the classroom, near the door, the intercom fizzles to life. Mr. Novak draws his attention away from the lesson, brows raised.

“ _Staff and students, please excuse the interruption. Your principal and dean request the following students come immediately to the office. They will return to class with a pink pass. Devin Adams, Ashley Barrett…_ ” Sam almost starts to tune out at the list of names, but then he hears the monotone voice drone on, “ _Ruby Waites, and Sam Winchester. Thank you._ ”

Sam exchanges a look with Ruby and then with Mr. Novak, who has a crease now between his brows. Both Sam and Ruby stand and Mr. Novak says nothing to them as they exit out to the hallway. Sam shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and watches Ruby carefully. She seems unfazed.

Sam asks, “What do you think is going on?” He knows what she’s going to say, and he knows what’s going on, but there’s something comforting in knowing that he’s not alone in the knowledge that they’re being singled out as suspects in the murders.

“You’re not an idiot,” she says back, “They’re calling down any kid without a fucking cardigan and a purity ring. You’re the creepy new kid, and I’m a ‘bad influence.’”

Sam sputters, “Creepy?”

“Long hair, tall, found the first body?” Ruby suggests, “Most of the kids at this school have known each other since before they knew how to shit in a toilet by themselves. Whether or not we like it, everyone’s up in our business. Nobody knows you, so you’re automatically suspect number one. It’s not fair, but there it is.”

Sam frowns.

When Sam and Ruby step inside the office, it’s crawling with activity. Kids are slumped in the chairs around the waiting area, some looking nervous, others annoyed, and more still seeming bored with the entire thing. Uniformed police officers flit from place to place. As soon as he and Ruby sink down into seats of their own and watch the organized chaos, it’s easy to see that the students are being called one by one into one of two rooms. As far as Sam knows, these rooms are typically used for in-school suspensions, though now he’s guessing that they’re improvised interrogation rooms.

“This is bullshit,” some kid with a shaggy, grown-out mohawk complains, “They can’t do this at school. We’re minors.”

“Actually,” Sam says, “It’s totally legal to question a minor at school. It’s how police circumnavigate parents.”

The kid gapes at him for a moment before he rolls his eyes and glances back away. Ruby casts him an amused glance.

One by one, the students start to disappear. Most seem pretty worked over by the time they make it out of the rooms and get their pink passes back to class from the admin up front. Either they’re sweating like stuck pigs or on the verge of tears, and Sam would really rather be neither of those things. But as Ruby’s name is called and he is the last student sitting in the waiting area, he knows that there’s no way to wriggle out of this, no matter how pissed off Dean is going to be when he hears that the cops pulled the wool over his eyes.

The cops release Ruby before the kid that went before her. She collects her pass and cuffs Sam on the shoulder affectionately. She says, “Good luck in there, stranger.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he mutters, but the words just make him feel even worse.

The police man that calls Sam’s name and ushers him into the leftmost room is a serious-eyed man, looking all no-nonsense and ready to deflect any bullshit that Sam has up his sleeve. Before Sam sits, he extends his hand and says, “Sam Winchester. I’m Victor Henriksen. Go ahead and take a seat.”

Sam chews on his lower lip, but obeys. The room is about as big as a cardboard box, the walls white – though vandalized with pencil and blue and black pen – and contains a single desk. A second chair is crammed in the room in front of that desk.

“So, you’re the kid that found the first victim,” Victor says. He closes the door, and the room feels even smaller as the cop sits across from Sam. The single fluorescent light overhead gives a gentle flicker.

“Uh,” Sam manages, “Yeah. I was walking my dog.”

“Yeah, that’s what it says in your statement,” Victor agrees.

“I don’t get it,” says Sam, “If you guys already have my statement and everything, why am I being called down here?”

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Victor says, “But somebody’s out there killing kids, and we’ve got to consider every possibility. You’ve got no one to back up your alibi of being home before you took your dog out, so I’m gonna need to hear where you were on the night of the second murder.”

Sam thinks back and swallows. He answers, “Um. I was babysitting my brother’s coworker’s kid.”

“Can the kid back you up?”

Slowly, Sam shakes his head. A knot of panic forms in his throat when he realizes that, oh God, he doesn’t have any cover for either of the murders. He says, “I mean, Ben was there at the apartment, but he was asleep. I was texting with my girlfriend, though?”

“Could I take a look at that?” Victor asks.

Sam nods, fishing his cellphone out from the pocket of his jeans. He scrolls up, trying not to blush at some of the racier things that he and Jess have sent each other since that night. When he finds the conversation, he passes the phone to Victor. Victor’s eyes flick across the screen  and he uses the pad of his thumb to scroll through them.

“Sam, all of these messages are well after the time of death,” Victor says, “Did you text anybody else that night?”

“No,” he admits, and then asks, “Does that mean that I’m a suspect?”

Victor hands Sam the phone back and steeples his fingers together, resting his elbows on the desk between them. He says, “At this point, nobody’s a suspect. But I will be up front with you, Sam, you are a person of interest in this investigation. Just about everyone’s got an alibi but you, son, so it isn’t looking good. If you did this, if you hurt those kids, it’ll be easier on you if you just go ahead and tell me now.”

“I didn’t hurt anybody!” Sam exclaims, louder than he meant to. He’s as close to crying as the other kids he saw were, maybe closer. Before Victor can say anything, Sam adds, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. But I’d never do something like this. You’re looking in the wrong place.”

“If that’s the case, kid, then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” says Victor, “I’ll let you head back to class now, but we’ll be keeping an eye on you, you got that?”

“Yes sir,” Sam says, instead of arguing like he wants to.

When Sam heads back to class, AP Lit is long over and he’s onto his next period. When he hands his teacher his pink pass and takes a seat, everyone is staring at him again. He feels like a freaking zoo animal like this, and no matter how far he sinks down in his seat, he still stands out. An ugly, thorny feeling coils in his belly, not unlike the way he felt when he and Dean first pulled up to the apartment building with a U-Haul trailer of their junk hitched to the back of the Impala. He’d felt sick, like Sioux Falls would poison everything.

Now, it seems like that feeling was a premonition, rather than teenage angst.

By the time Sam bikes home, he feels empty and cold, isolated. He feels like some freak on display in a glass case, with everyone staring in at him, as terrified as they are fascinated. He chains his bike at the apartment and goes through the motions of taking Daisy down to do her business. She wags her tail at him, hoping for a walk, but Sam is too burnt out to oblige, and takes her back upstairs. His phone buzzes with a text from Jess, but he ignores it.

In the short time it took for Sam to arrive home, escort Daisy downstairs and outside, and return to the apartment, Dean has gotten back from work. He pounces the second that Sam lets Daisy off of her leash and tosses it on the kitchen table.

“Are you all right?” Dean asks, “Cas texted me. What happened?”

“The cops,” shrugs Sam, “I guess I’m a ‘person of interest’ or whatever.”

“What?” Dean says, “That’s total bullshit. You know what? I’m gonna call those fuckers and give them a piece of my goddamn mind. Who the hell do they think they are? Questioning kids at school? That’s effed up, man.”

“It’s perfectly legal, Dean,” Sam mutters.

“I don’t give a damn,” says Dean, “There’s a freakin’ line, dude, and they are over it.”

“Stop it!” Sam finally snaps, “Just stop. I can take care of this on my own. You don’t have to be all weird like this all the time.”

Something in Dean’s expression crumples. Sam almost feels bad, until Dean opens his big, dumb mouth again and says, “Hey, screw you. It’s my damn job to look after you. I’m supposed to keep you safe, and how the heck am I supposed to do that if I can’t even stick up for you?”

“Stop smothering me,” Sam finally says, and shoves past Dean. He hauls his backpack off of the carpet and marches to his bedroom. The door slams behind him louder than necessary, but he doesn’t care. He wants Dean to know how pissed he is. He can make his own choices. He can deal with his own problems. He doesn’t need some amped-up helicopter brother to do it for him.

Jesus _Christ._

Instead of stewing in his bad mood, Sam decides to channel his anger into working through his homework assignments, making calculations on graph paper in neat handwriting, and reading the assigned pages for AP US History and diving into the Physics crap, too.

Sam doesn’t realize just how long he’s been immersed in his homework until he hears the shuffling noises of Dean getting ready for work on the other side of his wall. For whatever reason, this serves only to piss him off more. Dean and his fucking mystery job – what the heck is the deal with that bullcrap anyway? Frustration bubbles up from the gut to the surface, and with it Sam can’t take it anymore.

Tonight, he’s going to find out what the hell Dean has been getting up to at night. Sam keeps an ear out for Dean as he slides away from his homework, stuffing his feet back into his sneakers, and slipping on a sweatshirt. He pulls the hood up over his head and pulls the strings tight. As soon as he hears the front door of the apartment open and close, Sam slips out too.

Sam keeps a safe distance behind Dean, slipping through the shadow of the complex parking lot and to his bike. He unchains it as quietly as he can, keeping an eye on Dean as he tosses his duffel in the backseat of the Impala and slides into the front seat.

Following Dean as he pulls from the lot and begins to drive is easier than he thought. Sometimes Dean will turn a corner faster than Sam can and he panics, only to see the Impala stopped in front of a red light several yards away. Sam remains about a block or so behind Dean for the entire journey, thanking Christ that he has long legs and a smidgeon of athletic ability to keep him going through a half-hour bike ride in the bitter, late-autumn cold.

Sam almost pumps the bike to the next corner when he spots the Impala not on the road, but parked in a lot on the other side of the street. Sam watches as the lights flick off and Dean steps out of the car, hefting his bag up onto his shoulder.

Sam moves quickly.

A big, neon sign out front advertises that this place is called _The Love Club_ , and has a raunchy neon couple in a suspect position. The signs closer to the front doors say _GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!_ and _BOYS! BOYS! BOYS!_

So Dean’s a bouncer? Was he just embarrassed because he’s working for a strip joint? It’s not like Sam is a kid. He knows what a strip club is and he doesn’t mind if his brother works at one to keep them both above water. The fact that Dean kept something so stupid from him makes him even hotter under his skin, even angrier. He doesn’t get why Dean thinks that he has to protect Sam from every tiny thing that isn’t right in the world.

Sam’s parents died too. Maybe Sam didn’t see their mom fall like Dean did, didn’t see ice and the blood or hear the crack, but he still lost his mom. He lost his dad, too. He lost his home. Sam isn’t a stranger to tragedy, no matter how hard Dean tries to make that untrue.

Dean swings around to the back, so Sam makes fast work of chaining his bike to a pipe on the side of the building. He follows just in time to see the back door closing behind Dean, and runs forward before it can close, wedging his hand between the door and its frame with a grunt of discomfort.

A pulse of sticky, heavy music thumps from beyond as the door slides shut behind Sam. He didn’t know what he expected from the back of a strip club, but this kind of seems like the backroom of any old place, lit up with cheap lighting fixtures, with a cruddy mini-fridge, microwave, and suspect coffee machine all tucked into one corner of the room. The blood warms his cheeks when he sees a scantily-clad redhead staring at him with one brow arched high. He tries very hard not to stare at her, and mostly succeeds.

So if Dean was a bouncer, where would he be?

On one side of the break room there are two rows of lockers stacked on top of one another. All of them have pieces of tape on the front with names written on them. Behind the cage-like front of Dean’s locker is his duffel.

So obviously Sam isn’t far behind his brother, wherever he is.

The redhead is long gone by the time that Sam turns away from the lockers and heads for the door that leads beyond the backroom. A slender hallway greets him with more décor and reddish mood lighting. There are two doors that at first Sam thinks are restrooms but upon further inspection discovers are dressing rooms for the strippers – dancers. Whatever you call them.

The door to the women’s dressing room bursts open and a blond brushes past Sam like he isn’t even there, breasts bouncing and barely confined in some sequined green thing with tassels. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been as red in the face as he is now. He swallows down nerves and works past it. Where the hell is his brother? Dean couldn’t have gotten that far. Sam was right behind him.

Sam ends up following his ears to the music, wondering if he could find Dean out near the doors or on the floor of the club. He doesn’t have much to go on, to be honest. Where do bouncers usually hang?

“All right, you,” a deep, New Orleans-accented voice drawls. A strong hand clamps down on his shoulder and turns him around. He’s face to face with a guy that isn’t quite as tall as him but definitely has at least twice the muscle mass. He says, “Nice try, sneakin’ in to get a free show. Ain’t no way you’re even eighteen yet. We’re just gonna go right back outside.”

“Wait,” says Sam.

“Sorry, can’t do that,” the bouncer says, and starts steering Sam toward the backroom door again.

“Stop,” Sam says, “I’m looking for my brother! I’m looking for Dean – Dean Winchester? I’m his brother. Please! I’m Sam.”

**X**

Dean is at the tail end of a thirty-minute lap dance, his first of the night, when Benny catches his eye and flicks his fingers toward himself in a _come here_ gesture. Dean tries not to let the curiosity or nervousness at the motion show on his face as the song winds down and the dance session ends. He winks down at the guy, some dude in a suit out with his coworkers celebrating some business thing – blah, blah blah. The other dudes have girls in their laps, tucking folded bills into the tops of their gold bottoms.

Dean’s client slides a final bill into Dean’s tiny pair of shorts and Dean puts on the charm, smiling wide and leaning forward to brush his lips against the guy’s cheek. It’s gross. The dude smells like beer and cheap cologne, and instantly Dean wishes that the guy he’d kissed was Cas instead, who just smells like practical laundry detergent and scrubbed-clean skin.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks Benny, raising his voice above the loud echo of music.

“Your brother is here,” Benny says.

“…What?” is the weak reply that Dean manages.

“Sam,” says Benny, “Your brother. I parked him in the break room.”

“All right,” Dean says. He grabs at the back of his neck and thanks Benny before dipping into the back. He makes a pit stop at the dressing room to throw a robe over his shoulders and tries not to feel sick to his stomach. What the hell is Sam doing here? Did he tail Dean all the way to the club? Christ, what is he going to think when he sees his big brother all trussed up like Thanksgiving turkey?

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dean pushes the door to the backroom open. Sure enough, Sam sits in the corner with his huge legs drawn up to his chest. When he hears Dean enter the room and his eyes fall on Dean’s sexed-up, sweaty appearance, his jaw unhinges. Dean gives himself a self-conscious hug before he thinks again – _what the fuck_?

“What the hell are you doing here?” is the first thing out of his mouth, the words acid on Dean’s tongue.

Sam retorts with an incredulous, “What the hell are you doing wearing gold booty shorts?”

That shuts Dean up nicely. He sits down next to Sam, realizing with a pinch of humiliation in his gut that he didn’t fish the bills out of his shorts and that the green is still sticking out of the waistband. He fumbles with his robe, closing it over his chest and tying it off. He threads his fingers through his hair and shit, how is he supposed to start this conversation?

“So, this pays the rent,” Dean awkwardly says.

Sam just quirks one brow up.

Dean goes on, “Look, I guess I didn’t want you to like – feel ashamed, you know? This thing, it puts gas in the tank, and it –”

“Dean,” interjects Sam, “I don’t care. I’m not ashamed, you weird asshole. I’m mad that you’re keeping crap like this from me. So you’re – you’re – you’re an ‘exotic dancer’ or whatever. It’s a perfectly legitimate job. I don’t give a shit. I know you’re taking care of me. I’m not a stupid kid, you know.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Dean says. The statement’s a blow to the gut. It reminds Dean of the way that John always treated him like he was some idiot and couldn’t understand the ins and outs of life when really, Dean knew way more than any kid should have to know as a teenager. He knows that Sam knows way more about life and the shit it can throw at you than a seventeen year old should, and it stokes a hollow feeling in his heart.

All at once, the hot sensation of shame washes over Dean, the rush powered by the knowledge that he’s been no better to Sammy than John was to him.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispers. He doesn’t look his brother in the eye, just runs his fingers back through his hair as he says, “I shouldn’t have ever treated you that way. I just…wanted to give you the opportunity to be a kid. Looks like somewhere along the way I fucked that up and treated you like an idiot instead.”

“God, Dean, you’re so dense sometimes,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Stop keeping stuff secret,” adds Sam.

“I’ll do that,” Dean says. He only looks up then, expecting Sam’s face to be contorted with anger. Instead Sam just looks like his usual self, all puppy-dog eyes and sympathetic ears.

Before Dean knows what’s happening, Sam pulls him into a hug and says, “You’re awesome, you know that?”

Dean pats Sam’s shoulder and coughs, “All right. No need to go all after-school special on me. I need to get back to work. Gonna give Cas a call to pick you up.”

“Dude, I don’t need your boyfriend to give me a ride,” Sam complains, “I rode my bike.”

“Yeah, and I don’t need you getting killed because you’re out after dark with some psycho on the loose,” Dean snaps back. That seems to shut Sam up, though he puts on a pouty face while Dean retrieves his cell from his locker.

Sam can be huffy all he wants, as long as he’s safe.

**X**

Castiel’s tea, half-drunk in his antique cup, ripples when his cellphone vibrates against his kitchen table. He pulls his reading glasses off of his nose and pushes aside the stack of short-answer quizzes from his freshman class. Dean’s name flashes to life on the screen.

“Hello?” he answers, “Dean?”

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says. He sounds out of breath and tired. Castiel is under the impression that Dean should be at work, and it sounds like perhaps he is. Dean continues, “So, um. Can I ask a favor, man? Sammy followed me to the club and I need to get back on the floor, but I don’t want him biking back home alone, you know? Would you mind pickin’ him up?”

That certainly does sound like Sam Winchester’s determination, especially since Dean insisted upon concealing his night job from him. Castiel had doubted that Sam’s patience with his older brother would last terribly long.

“Yes, I can collect him,” says Cas.

Dean lets out a breath that he had been holding in, a terrible sound that makes Cas wish that he was there beside Dean, that he could gather Dean into his arms and kiss the stress out of him. Warmth pools in his stomach at the thought, knowing that he even has somebody to hold against him and kiss to comfort.

“Thanks so much, dude,” Dean says. He lowers his voice to add, “If, uh. If you stick around at the apartment, I could give you a BJ. A super awesome BJ.”

Castiel chuckles and says, “If you want me to stay, you don’t need to bribe me with oral sex. Although, I wouldn’t say no.”

“Cool, awesome,” Dean says, “I’ve gotta bounce, but thanks. It, ah. Means a lot, man, thanks.”

“Of course,” Cas says.

After Dean hangs up, Castiel shrugs his coat over his shoulders and fastens his shoes onto his feet. The club isn’t far from his house, although while he drives it seems strange knowing that now he isn’t visiting with the hope of catching a glimpse of anonymous stripper, but to dip into the life of that man and take his brother home.

The bouncer called Benny lets Castiel into the back of The Love Club, surprisingly innocuous in comparison to the lavish outside. Sam is playing a puzzle game on his phone when Cas walks into the backroom, looking to be in a foul mood. Cas clears his throat and asks, “Are you ready to go, Sam?”

Sam looks up and tucks his phone into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He says, “Yeah, let’s go.”

Outside, Sam leads Castiel to where his bicycle is and unchains it. Fortunately for the both of them, Cas has a bike rack on the back of his car – in the warm months, Castiel likes to bike long routes and spend the days outdoors – so the transport of Sam’s bike proves to be a non-issue.

When Castiel and Sam buckle themselves into the car and the engine starts, old Beatles music fills the air and silence between them. It is strange to have his student in the seat beside him, even though Castiel already has associated with Sam outside of the context of the classroom. He hums along to the music and drums his fingers against the steering wheel to give himself something to do, but this only serves to thicken the tension between the two of them.

“This is weird,” Sam says.

“I suppose it is weird, yes.”

Sam fidgets and then asks, “Is this gonna get you in trouble? Being with my brother, or whatever?”

“I doubt it,” Castiel says, “Unless I treat you more favorably than the other students, there really isn’t anything wrong.”

“Huh.”

“Mhmm.”

The remainder of the drive goes mostly quietly, save for small talk about the promised oncoming snow in the next couple of weeks and Sam’s other classes at school. They carefully avoid the subject of Dean and Dean’s job, as well as the reason that Castiel is giving Sam a ride back home in the first place.

And as soon as they arrive, Cas says, “Your brother asked me to stay.”

“What, like babysit me?” Sam says, incredulous.

“No,” Cas replies, “I think he just wants somebody to come home to.”

“…Oh.”

“I didn’t want to make it weird while we walked up.”

“Kinda too late for that, Cas.”

Castiel chuckles. He likes Sam beyond the walls of the school. Sometimes it can be difficult to truly know one’s students, being that it’s difficult to gain the trust of teenagers in the first place, at least as an authority figure. Castiel can’t say whether or not he has earned the trust of Sam Winchester, but he can at least guess at tentative beginnings of something like it.

In the Winchesters’ apartment, Sam retires to his bedroom immediately after he takes Daisy downstairs to get some of her nervous energy out. As soon as Sam is out of sight, Daisy pads along behind Castiel as he makes himself useful unpacking some things out of the remaining cardboard boxes littering the apartment, and as he scours the kitchen for materials to use to have a meal waiting for Dean when he arrives back home.

Dean arrives shortly after Castiel’s pasta is finished. His weary, exhaustion-lined face lights up at the smell of the food, a cheesy, meaty pasta with what few vegetables were in the fridge chopped and thrown in. He kisses Castiel square on the mouth when he sees the pot and says, “Damn. You’re an angel, Cas.”

Cas and Dean share the pasta at the small kitchen table in plastic dishware, and Castiel makes Dean head to bed when they finish, despite protests. While Dean changes out of the days’ clothing, Cas scoops the leftovers into a Tupperware bowl and stashes it in the refrigerator. He doesn’t bother to wash the pot but does rinse it, leaving it to soak in the sink before he toes across the apartment to join Dean.

“C’mere, handsome,” Dean says, once the bedroom door is closed, “Get naked and get your ass over here.”

Castiel tries not to laugh too hard as he sheds his things and climbs into bed with Dean. Dean is half-naked himself, wearing only a pair of well-loved cotton boxer briefs.

“C’mere,” Dean repeats, “M’tired, so you’re gonna fuck my face, ‘kay?”

“We don’t have to do anything,” Cas says, brows crunching together.

“I know,” Dean murmurs, voice rough, “Wanna.”

So Castiel obeys, sidling up over Dean’s body, leaning into the touch when Dean grips his ass in both hands and pulls him forward. Dean runs the flat of his tongue over the crown of Cas’ cock before sucking the head in his mouth. He looks up at Castiel through his lashes and kneads his ass, urging him to thrust forward. At first, Cas keeps his movement shallow and steady, but as Dean hums and moans around the length of him, his hips begin to snap forward in earnest. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Dean’s mouth takes him, lips wrapped around him like they were made for cock-sucking alone.

When Cas hitches forward and comes with a strangled noise of pleasure, Dean holds him still and swallows everything down.

They melt into each other, snuggling down into the mattress. Dean pulls the covers up over them both and closes his eyes, but opens them again when Cas presses damp kisses to the skin behind Dean’s ear and says, “Let me reciprocate.”

“Don’t hafta,” Dean slurs.

“I do have to,” Cas murmurs back. He dips his hand inside Dean’s underwear and takes his soft cock into his grip, stroking it to life. Dean shudders under the touch. He isn’t loud, only letting out soft mewls and haggard breaths, but it’s enough for Cas to double his efforts.

Dean is silent when he comes, mouth open wide as warmth splashes over Cas’ fist.

“Should I clean us up?” asks Cas.

“Stay,” Dean says.

“Okay,” agrees Castiel, “But when you wake up in a puddle of come, it’s your fault.”

“I can accept that.”

Castiel wipes his hand on Dean’s comforter and then runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. It doesn’t take long for Dean to fall asleep after that, Cas’ hand pulling rhythmically over his scalp. Cas is slow to follow. Instead, he listens to the gentle sound of Dean’s inhales and exhales and presses in close so that he can feel each rise and fall of Dean’s chest. It amazes Castiel that Dean does so much that a pot of pasta can seem like a Godsend – amazes and saddens.

He wishes that Dean didn’t have to do so much to keep his family together. It seems hardly fair that Sam and Dean should suffer while others in the world roll along without lifting a finger. Cas’ heart clenches underneath his ribs, and he finds himself drawing closer to Dean, basking in their shared body heat. Castiel applies a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck and then presses his cheek there, wishing that there was only something that he could do to help him.


	8. Them Things that You Told Me

**Chapter Track: Tired and Lonesome – Strangejuice**

**_Them Things that You Told Me_ **

When Sam wakes on Saturday, his head aches and his mouth is sour and dry as a bone. When he put his head to his pillow the night before, he found that he couldn’t fall asleep without being swallowed by nightmares, cold, shadowy things in which he feels handcuffs around his wrists and wears a prison jumpsuit. He knows that he didn’t do it, didn’t hurt those kids, but he’s still afraid.

Everyone thinks that Sam is the murderer. Why wouldn’t the police force, too?

As soon as he shifts underneath his covers, Daisy clambers to her feet and steps over Sam’s body, sticking one paw directly into a kidney so that she can lean forward and lick his face.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’ll take you down. Gotta pee first.”

Daisy tries to follow Sam into the bathroom and scratches the door as he lifts the toilet seat to relieve himself. When he sees himself in the mirror, his face is a mess. He looks not only groggy and exhausted, but actually sick, like he might throw up. He doesn’t feel sick, not really, unless you can get sick from being scared. In an attempt to make himself look more human, he splashes water on his face and runs a comb through his hair.

It helps, but not by much.

He knows that Castiel came over to see Dean last night, but neither of them are in the kitchen or living room, and there’s no pot of coffee started yet – so they’re probably still asleep. Sam thinks that that’s probably for the best. Dean needs sleep, and never seems to get any unless somebody makes him sit his ass down and get it.

Sam clips Daisy’s leash to her collar and slips sneakers onto his feet. Together, they pad down the stairs, the only noise in the early-morning emptiness of the apartment building. The second-floor stairwell smells faintly of cigarette smoke, but there are no other signs of human life – just stained carpet, flickering fluorescent light, and the sound of Sam’s feet thumping down the stairs in time with the jangling of Daisy’s collar.

When Sam opens the door and turns the corner, he drops Daisy’s leash.

In the center of the apartment parking lot, a small, thin-armed body lies spread-eagled across the tarmac.

He’s going to throw up.

Sam stumbles backward and catches himself with a palm against the brick exterior of the building, bile bubbling up past his lips to spatter on the pavement below. Daisy whines and nudges her damp nose at the loose leg of his sweatpants.

He has to call the police. Sam doesn’t want to see the police again, doesn’t want to feel like he’s done something wrong when he knows that there’s nothing, but he has no other option. With a shaking hand, he pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket and dials 9-1-1.

The operator on the other line has to tell him to calm down, slow down, tell her what’s going on. Sam has to force the words to come out and explain. _There’s a dead girl in the parking lot outside of my apartment. No, I don’t know her._ Sam relays his address, and as soon as he hangs up with the operator, he flicks through his contacts and dials Dean’s cell.

“Sammy?”

“Dean, I need you to come down here,” Sam says, unable to keep the panic from his voice.

“What? Where are you? What’s going on?” he can hear Dean shift up as his voice changes from tired and worn to awake and concerned.

“I’m downstairs,” says Sam, “I was taking Daisy down to pee and – and – there’s another body! I’m supposed to wait for the cops to come and I don’t want to be alone. Please.”

“Shit,” Dean says. He hears another couple of curses and what he thinks is an exchange with his English teacher before his brother goes on to say, “We’ll be down in a sec. Hang tight.”

Distant sirens draw closer, and Dean and Castiel join Sam just as the first emergency vehicle pulls in. Paramedics surround the body and a familiar police officer dismounts from his car with eyes dark. It’s Victor, and Sam knows that his presence isn’t a good sign.

“Hey there, Sam,” Victor says. The greeting isn’t friendly.

“Hi,” he manages. Daisy nudges at Sam’s hand and huddles close to his leg.

Around them it’s chaos. It’s hard to pay attention to Victor with the flashing lights and cop cars shining in the morning sun. He thinks he sees news vans, but Sam doesn’t want to think about what that might mean for him. Of course the news people are here. There’s another dead kid, and Sam looks like a likely suspect.

Dean sticks close until Victor says, “I’m gonna need to speak to your brother alone, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean doesn’t look happy at being told this, and Sam doesn’t feel happy. He feels scared and sick all over again, amplified as the minutes tick by. His only comfort is that as he follows Victor to a quieter corner of the scene is that Daisy follows and sits beside Sam, as though standing sentry for him. He scratches behind her ears.

“I need you to describe the events leading up to the discovery of the body,” Victor tells him.

Sam fidgets and responds, “I woke up. I went to the bathroom. I took my dog down here and found her.”

“That’s all? Can your brother and his partner corroborate that?”

An icy hand of panic clenches its fist around Sam’s heart. The blood drains right from his face, and he says, “They were asleep.”

“Are you telling me that you don’t have an alibi, son?” asks Victor.

“I guess,” Sam says, “I was asleep. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say,” Victor says, “But you know how bad this is looking for you, right?”

“Yeah, I fucking know!” Sam shouts. He doesn’t mean to, but the anger comes faster than his wits. He clenches his fists and says, “You’re wasting your time. I’m not a fucking murderer. Do you think I’d dump a body right next to my own damn apartment building? I’m a straight A student! I’ve never done anything wrong my whole life!”

“Sam, you have to understand –”

“I’m not going to understand,” snaps Sam, “ _Fuck you_.”

In the next instant, Sam lunges for Officer Henriksen and finds himself being yanked back by two sets of strong arms. Dean and Castiel flank him on his sides. Dean says, “Whoa, whoa, hey. Calm down, dude. We’re gonna get this figured out.”

“They think I’m a killer,” Sam says brokenly, “I’d never hurt anybody and everybody thinks that I did it.”

At this, Dean pulls him into a hug and rubs Sam’s back. Sam sags into the touch. His brother doesn’t think that he’s a killer. Dean knows. At least he has that, if nothing else. He grips Dean’s t-shirt – except it isn’t Dean’s t-shirt, because it’s a t-shirt from some book drive that happened before he and Dean even lived in Sioux Falls.

“I know, kid,” Dean says, “We’ll make it better, okay? We’ll fix it.”

For the first time in Sam’s life, he thinks that he may have stepped into a situation that Dean _can’t_ fix. His life may be over, and there’s nothing that anybody will be able to do about. Not even his big brother.

**X**

It doesn’t surprise Sam that nobody talks to him at school on Monday, but it still hurts. When he walks down the hallway to his lockers, the other students part like the Red Sea and stare at him like he’s some creature from the circus. Even when Sam lowers his eyes to his dirty shoes, he still feels their eyes, the gazes prickling over his skin. He keeps his head down and collects his books – and hopes that the staring might let up after first period is over.

But it doesn’t end, of course. Every time somebody spots him, they turn to whisper to their friends or just back away like he has some disease they might catch if they get within four feet of him. He walks through the day with a bubble of space around him, and his foul mood weighing down on his chest.

At lunchtime he doesn’t even bother seeking out Jess to find out what she thinks, just takes his food out back to where he knows Ruby hangs out during lunch period and when she’s ditching class.

“Hey,” she says when she sees Sam, a note of surprise in her voice.

“Hi,” he mutters.

Ruby doesn’t give him any words of consolation as Sam lowers himself beside her and digs into his sub-par school lunch. She just flicks her lighter on and off and exhales fragrant tendrils of smoke toward the ripped knees of her jeans. The smoke doesn’t smell like usual – it’s tangier.

“You want?” Ruby offers, “Might make you feel better.”

Sam eyes the joint. He’s never smoked weed before. Hell, he’s never smoked a cigarette before. He’s hardly touched alcohol. But right now, feeling better sounds awesome. So, he takes the joint and Ruby’s lighter, and follows her instructions on lighting the end and inhaling. The acrid smoke burns in his lungs and Sam almost coughs all of it right back us, bursts of vapor coming up at each hack.

Ruby laughs at him and tells him to try again. The second time is easier, though he does cough. He just doesn’t cough as much. He knows that the weed is hitting when mellowness replaces the fury in his veins. He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, and says, “I wish they’d at least stop fucking staring at me, you know?”

“Eh, they can’t help it,” shrugs Ruby, “You’re something to talk about, and people are bored.”

“But I’m not a murderer.”

“I know that,” Ruby says, “But they don’t. Hell, if you weren’t here, they’d all be looking at me. I’m a freak, and you’re new. It’s a flock mentality, or whatever they call that shit.”

“Herd mentality.”

“Same difference,” says Ruby, “You know what I meant. Point is, cops are just going after what they think is obvious, and I’m pretty fucking sure there’s nothing obvious about this whole shitshow at all. You’ll make it through, kid.”

“You’re the same age as I am,” complains Sam.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ruby replies. She stands and says, “Better go show up before I get detention again. Place is boring as hell. Enjoy your lunch.”

“Thanks,” Sam says.

He doesn’t enjoy his lunch, and he doesn’t enjoy the rest of the day. He keeps quiet and sequesters himself, acutely aware of the eyes that never leave his back, watching as he trudges from class to class and at last as he sprints toward the bike rack and freedom after the final bell. He struggles with his bike chain, so eager to get away from school that his hands shake.

Sam isn’t fast enough.

“Sam!”

He closes his eyes and exhales. He doesn’t reply.

“ _Sam_.”

“What?” he snaps, and surges up to his full height to glare at Jess.

“Why aren’t you answering any of my texts?” she asks.

“I figured you think I’m a murderer too,” Sam says, and turns away to finish getting his bike loose from the rack.

Jess pulls him back with a hand on his arm. Her fingernails are painted bubblegum pink.

“Why don’t you let me decide that for myself, huh?” she demands, “I thought we were together. I thought you liked me. What the hell was everything you said about if you’re just gonna ditch me at the first sign of trouble?”

Keen guilt deals a swift punch to Sam’s gut, and his shoulders sag. Jess is right, of course. He didn’t even read her texts, just deleted them. Maybe that wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. Here he is, wanting a chance from everyone else, and he won’t even give a chance to the one person he likes most in this crappy town.

“You’re right,” he says slowly, “I’m sorry.”

Jess frowns at him and steps in closer. They’re not within kissing range, and the touch isn’t exactly a hug, but it’s nice, and she’s warm and soft. She says, “Come on. Kiss and make up, right?”

Sam leans down and Jess meets him halfway. He didn’t realize how much he missed the taste of her sticky lipgloss or the feel of her lips against his until they’re connected. It takes all the willpower that Sam has in his body not to hook his hands around her waist and heave her up. When they part, he breathlessly asks her, “You wanna hang out? We could watch movies or something.”

One side of Jess’ lips quirk up. She moves her hand from his arm to his neck and rests it there. Sam likes it. It makes him feel safe, like he doesn’t have anything to worry about beyond this bubble of a moment. She says, “I kind of had something else in mind.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “What did you,” – he cuts himself off and the smirk on Jess’ face sends the puzzle pieces fitting together – “Oh. _Oh_. Are you sure? I mean, Dean is gone and I have protection and stuff ‘cause Dean gave me some –”

“Positive,” Jess says, and pecks a kiss to his lips, “Let’s get your bike on my car, hm?”

Sam has never scrambled to obey an order so fast.

The car ride, though, gives Sam enough time to consider his nervousness. Jess is gorgeous and funny and kind and the fact that she likes him enough to want to be naked and in bed with him has his brain reeling. While everyone else thinks that Sam is some kind of evil incarnate, his girlfriend trusts him enough to let him inside her.




What if he fucks up? Dean always says that “you should make sure that your lady gets hers before you take yours”, but what if he isn’t good at that? And okay, maybe Sam googled some info on sex and first times just in case the occasion arose, but he kind of didn’t think that it was going to happen, considering the amount of people in town that have their torches and pitchforks pointed right at him.

Sam doesn’t even realize that they’re near his building until the car is a stop and Jess rests her hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, “We’re here. Are you all right? If you don’t wanna do it then we don’t have to.”

“No, I want to,” he says, “I just want to make sure it’s good for you and I’m worried I won’t.”

Jess smiles, corners of her eyes crinkling behind the plastic frame of her glasses. She kisses his cheek and says, “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

The parking lot at the building doesn’t have as many cars as it used to. Even after the crime scene tape came down and everyone could use the lot again, too many of the residents were scared enough to turn tail and find a new place to live. It’s just another reason for Sam to feel guilty and alone, to wish that he wasn’t in the mess that he’s in.

But then Jess kisses him, and the bad thoughts fly away. His heart starts to beat faster when she locks her car and he walks his bike to chain it up. It’s pounding by the time that they’re on the stairs, and when he and Jess stand just outside the apartment door, Sam’s blood roars at full force in his ears and the apples of his cheeks and between his legs.

When Sam closes the door behind them, Jess wraps her arms around him and kisses him hard. Her soft body fits against his like a glove to a hand, and now that they’re away from the public eye, he doesn’t hesitate to coil his arms around her back and heave her up. Jess takes the opportunity to wrap her long legs around his waist. She hums when she rubs up against the front of his jeans, and smiles when she feels the beginning of an erection brush up against her.

Sam knows that he’s bright red, and he doesn’t even care.

“Sorry my room is a mess,” is the first thing that he’s able to say when Jess pulls him along and sits on his bed.

“I think it’s funny that you think this is ‘a mess’,” she tells him. Without ceremony, Jess pulls her arms through the long sleeves of her shirt and whips it off of her head.

The beginning of an erection makes a swift change to full-on Boner City. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed, because God, Jess is right there and he’s so damn lucky. There’s no time to be embarrassed, because he needs to use all the time he can being wrapped up in his girlfriend.

The bra that Jess is wearing looks fancier than the handful of others that he’s seen. It’s a pastel purple kind of color, and it’s lacy. Sam runs the tips of his fingers along the trim and murmurs, “I like this.”

“I had high hopes for today,” Jess says, grinning, “Wait until you see the matching underwear.”

Sam’s eyes make an immediate shift downward, over the gentle slope of Jess’ belly to her denim skirt and the stockings she has on with cats printed on them.

“I’m not sure I know how to take nylons off,” Sam tells her.

Jess laughs and says, “You say that like it’s rocket science,” but sits up enough to unbutton her skirt and shimmy out of it. She presses her hands inside the sheer fabric of her stockings and pulls them off in one graceful move. Sam doesn’t know where she throws them, because he’s too focused on what Jess has left behind. The panties match the bra, and they’re possibly the greatest thing that he has ever seen in his entire life. They’re see-through and lacy and barely there at all.

“Holy shit,” he says, “You – holy shit.”

Jess pulls Sam down by the collar of his t-shirt and kisses him. Against his mouth, she says, “I like the sound of that. Why don’t you take off some of your clothes, hm?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. He probably sounds too eager. Sam also doesn’t care. He throws his t-shirt over his head and across the room, and shucks his jeans off and to the very edge of the mattress. With socks off, all he’s got are his plaid boxers.

“Sorry I don’t look as good as you do,” Sam says, joking. Mostly joking, anyway. His loose cotton underwear are a far cry from the radiance that is his girlfriend. He understands now how some guys just want to dive straight into the ‘main event’, so to speak, because she looks like she’ll feel incredible and he desperately wants to be as close as he can to her skin.

But Sam knows he needs to gives Jess hers, because he’s a goddamn gentleman. He swallows the knot of nerves in his throat and pushes his hands underneath the thin sides of Jess’ panties, pulling them down her legs and letting them float down to the carpet, forgotten. Sam figures he should stick with what he knows for sure will get Jess off, and moves to nuzzle the inside of her thigh – when a better idea occurs to him.

He pecks a kiss to the soft skin right below her pussy and then sits back up. Sam says, “I wanna try something. I dunno if it’ll work but it can’t hurt to try and I,” – he pauses to take a deep breath – “I wanna make sure you, um. Come. Before I do. And I was gonna, uh. Gonna eat you out. But then I thought maybe you might like to do that one thing where I like lie down and then you –”

Jess cocks a single brow and asks, “Are you asking me to sit on your face?”

“Um,” Sam feels his face flush, “Yes.”

“You’re so sweet,” she says, and cuffs him on the arm.

Shifting into the right place is kind of awkward. It’s nothing like the internet porn he’s watched, where the actors seem totally in sync and make sex just look so dang easy. In reality, Sam slams his elbow into his bed’s headboard, and Jess laughs at him for a solid thirty seconds before she’s ready to crawl up close to him again. She kisses him before she moves up, and bites her lip.

“Hey,” he says, “You good?”

“Yeah,” Jess says, “I just – yeah. You’re awesome.”

“I think you’re pretty awesome too,” he tells her.

Sam rests his palms on the backs of Jess’ thighs, kneading his thumbs into the soft flesh as she moves closer. He exhales against her when she hovers right above him, and she shivers. Her eyes shutter closed. He likes the smell of her between her legs, as weird as that may sound, and he loves her taste. It’s only after Sam leans up to run his tongue over her that she lowers her body against him. Sam breathes out his nose and rolls with the rhythm that Jess sets. He clutches at her legs now, and God, his dick feels like it’s about to fall off from being so into this.

Little noises spill out of Jess, soft, breathy gasps and mewls of pleasure when Sam moves his mouth just right. A bolt of pride streaks through him when he does something so right that Jess actually starts to topple over and catches herself with a hand on one of his pillows.

So, naturally, Sam moves his tongue the same way again.

“Holy crap,” she says, and takes a handful of his hair, “Don’t stop doing that.”

Making Jess come isn’t easy, but maybe that’s part of why it’s so rewarding when she does. Jess yanks up on his hair and makes this sweet, broken sound. Sam moans into her, and chuckles when she finally backs up off of him. Jess laughs a little back and says, “You look totally debauched.”

“Good,” Sam says, “C’mere and kiss me.”

Jess doesn’t hesitate to obey. She leans down and covers his mouth with hers. When she surfaces, she murmurs, “You taste like me.”

“So, pretty good, then?”

She rolls her eyes, but moves one of her hands to cup the side of his jaw, thumb stroking over his lips. Jess says only one word: “Protection?” – and Sam moves into action, lifting her off of him and rolling to the left edge of the mattress. He reaches over for the box on his bookshelf that he keeps his baseball cards in and between two fingers procures one of the condoms that Dean made sure he had.

Before Sam can do anything with it, Jess snatches the packet from his hands. She rolls his boxers down his legs and throws them over the side of his bed, and then rips open the condom packet. Sam tries not to blush as she rolls it over his straining erection, but he knows he is when she gives him this affectionate smile that makes his chest hurt.

And then, all at once, Jess straddles him and grips his dick at the base. She sinks down with a long groan. The noise that tears out of Sam when he’s inside her is unholy, something he’s never heard come out of his mouth before. She doesn’t move yet, though. Instead, she reaches behind her and unhooks her purple bra, shrugging out of it.

“Oh, crap,” Sam gasps.

“Like what you see?” she asks. She bounces her eyebrows, but her breath catches.

“God,” Sam moans, “You look amazing, Jess, seriously.” Her glasses sit kind of crooked on her nose, and the late afternoon sun filtering through his blinds catches in her blond curls, making them look like a bright, gold halo. And Christ, her body. He’s seen it before and he knows that, but nothing like this before, all at once, seeing her sturdy thighs and the slope of her belly and her naked breasts, pink nipples erect.

Jess doesn’t give him a chance to concentrate on the awesomeness of it all. She lifts her body and sinks back down, and Sam is lost. He clutches her waist and catches onto the beat of her movement, lifting up to meet her as she sinks down on his cock. She sighs and moans and Sam curses, because suddenly he understands his brother’s obsession with this. It’s nothing close to giving yourself a handie in the shower. It’s like every good feeling in the world is stuck to him like he’s a magnet. The way that her breasts bounce with every thrust of movement has Sam’s mouth dry. He wants to put his lips on her, but it’s not possible from this position.

So he holds her tight and flips her over.

Jess makes a noise of surprise and Sam gives her a grin. He wants it to be salacious but he’s pretty sure it’s just goofy and sex-addled. She wraps her legs around his waist. Sam lowers his mouth to nip at Jess’ breast and kiss the nipple, sucking and lapping and paying as much attention as he can as he rolls his hips into her. He wasn’t sure that he’d be able to get the rhythm right, but sex kind of seems like something that’s wired in his mind – and he just didn’t know until now.

He can tell that he isn’t going to last so he makes the best of the moment while he can and kisses Jess, running his fingers back through her tangled blond hair to pull her in closer. She’s hot and perfect around him, just the right kind of pressure. It makes his head swim when he starts to feel the build of his orgasm low in his belly.

“Jess,” he whispers, and licks his lips, “I’mma come.”

Jess laughs a little and leans up to kiss Sam’s sweat-damp forehead only seconds before Sam slams into her one final time and cradles her close to him. Out of courtesy he pulls out and collapse beside her rather than on top of her as was his first instinct.

“Was that okay?” he asks, chest rising and falling with labored breath.

“Honestly?” Jess says, “If you hadn’t told me you still had your V-Card, I never would have known.”

Sam laughs and throws his arm around Jess’ shoulder, leaning his head against hers. If Jess’ appearance is any indication, both of them look beyond disheveled. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes heavy-lidded. He can’t help but bring her in for another kiss.

“Hey Jess?”

“Mm.”

“Thanks for believing me.”

She gives Sam a surprised glance at that before her eyes soften, and she kisses his cheek. Jess ruffles his hair and says, “Of course I believe you.”

**X**

After work at the garage, Dean makes a pit stop at the apartment to shower before he meets Cas for supper. They’re meeting at a joint that Cas likes, some hole-in-the-wall pizza place. Dean would probably go anywhere that Castiel wanted to drag him, but pizza is the cherry on top of what should be an awesome evening.

The apartment is eerily quiet when he arrives. Dean almost shouts Sam’s name, but notices that beside Sam’s backpack on the carpet is a canvas messenger bag decorated with pins – definitely not something of Sammy’s. He toes across the living room and sets his ear to his little brother’s bedroom door. On the other side, he hears lowered voices, and recognizes them as Sam and Jess speaking.

Oh, that sly dog. Dean grins and muffles a laugh. It’s about damn time Sam found a worthy lady. Or maybe that a lady found Sam her worthy man. Whatever. Either way, Jess is pretty cool and Dean knows that his brother isn’t an idiot. He’ll let them be for now – but if he teases later, then that’s just his job as a brother, right?

The spray of the shower on Dean’s back after he locks the bathroom door and strips down is nothing short of a revelation. It hits his sore muscles just the right way and washes the grime and sweat and engine grease from his skin and out from under his fingernails. He knows that Cas doesn’t mind when Dean looks scrubby, but Dean likes having a reason to look halfway decent.

Sam and Jess still haven’t emerged by the time that he’s toweled dry and dressed in a clean t-shirt and his good pair of jeans, so he figures he’ll let them be. Sam probably wouldn’t find it as funny as Dean would if he paraded into Sam’s room just to make fun of them.

The drive to the pizza place is meditative, the sky clouding over with gray and covering the last of the sun poking over the tops of the buildings. Pink Floyd plays lowly, and he hums along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Cas is already seated when Dean arrives. He nurses a beer and scans the menu when Dean walks over and leans down to press a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head. Cas blinks up and cracks a smile.

“Hey, stranger,” Dean says.

“You’re here,” Cas says.

“Duh,” says Dean, “Couldn’t skip out on my best guy, could I?”

Cas looks at Dean like he hung the moon, and it fucking floors Dean that he could put an expression like that on somebody’s face.

A middle-aged waitress with smile lines takes Dean’s drink order, and by the time that she returns, takes their pizza orders down, and leaves again, the mood has changed. Dean tips back a swallow of beer and says, “This shit with Sam is makin’ me all edgy.”

“I know,” Cas answers, thumbing at the paper label on his beer bottle, “On one hand, I understand why the police are acting as they are…but on the other, Sam is happy and well-adjusted. Shouldn’t they be able to suss out likelier prospects? I’m not sure I follow their logic.”

“It’s just – kids are dying, man,” Dean says, “and here they are looking at Sammy. The kid couldn’t hurt a fly. Sure, he’s pissed off a lot, but what teenager isn’t? Sam’s a good kid. Right?”

“Of course he is,” Castiel says, and rests his hand over Dean’s.

The arrival of their pizza puts a hold on their sorrow. For a moment, Dean can focus on the taste of tomato sauce and greasy, melting cheese and crisp beer on his tongue. Still, even after their plates are cleared and beer bottles empty, receipt signed and weighed down with a generous tip, the heaviness of it all bears down on Dean. He feels his shoulders hunch and massages his temples, willing it all to go away. Moving to Sioux Falls was supposed to be about starting over, about leaving behind memories of death and debt.

But death and debt have always haunted Dean, so why would a move change any of that?

“Dean?”

He jerks his head up and sees Cas staring at him, head cocked and concern on his face.

“I’m fine,” says Dean. A reflex.

“No, you’re not,” Cas tells him. He hooks an arm around Dean’s waist and reels him in for a kiss. It’s gentler than Dean’s expects.

Then Cas asks him, “Would you like to come to my house for drinks?”

Huh. Cas’ place. He’s never been to Cas’ place.

“Sure, sounds great,” Dean replies.

“Good. Just follow my car back. I’ll see you soon.”

Cas kisses Dean’s cheek before he fishes in his pocket for his keys, and lifts his hand to say ‘see you later.’ At least while Dean’s good intentions crumble beneath his feet, he has a guy like Cas to steady him.

The neighborhood that Cas lives in tops the one that Sam and Dean live in, no question. There are little houses in similar shapes with manicured lawns and prize-winning rosebushes. Cas pulls into the driveway of a house in the middle of the cul-de-sac and Dean parks on the curb nearby. Maybe Dean is biased, but of all the houses on the street, he thinks he likes Cas’ house best. It’s not big and the lawn isn’t as kept, but he’s got a couple of weird-looking garden gnomes on the front steps and some contraption mounted on the porch made of stained glass.

“This is nice, dude,” Dean says.

“Thank you,” replies Castiel. He unlocks the front door and gestures for Dean to enter ahead of him.

And goddamn if the inside of Cas’ place isn’t exactly the way that Dean always pictured a good home being. It isn’t roomy, really, but it’s got nice, broken-in furniture and photographs and all the good stuff that tells a guy that this is a _home_. It’s not just a building, an apartment where somebody showers and sleeps but never loves.

“Dang, Cas,” Dean says, and finds himself reaching for Castiel’s hand without even thinking about it.

Cas laces his fingers through Dean’s and throws a smile his way. He says, “So you find my home acceptable?”

“Dude, way more than ‘acceptable’,” says Dean, “It’s – awesome, man. And Christ, look at how many books you have. Don’t think I’ve ever seen that many together outside of a library. I just – yeah, I like it in here.”

“I do like my little house,” Cas muses, “though it’s sometimes lonely. I think I like the way that you feel inside it.”

Dean quirks a brow and says, “You like me inside a lot of places.”

Cas rolls his eyes but pulls Dean in by the hand for a kiss. It starts off with them just fooling around, teasing with licks and nips and soft laughter, but then it changes. The laughter quiets and Dean cradles Castiel’s face in his palms to draw him closer, stroke along the inside of his mouth and taste as much as he can of him.

Sometimes when Dean stops to think he wonders if this thing with Cas is going too fast and if it might careen out of control. But he always decides no, it isn’t fast. It just is. Cas feels like he’s supposed to be wrapped up in Dean’s arms, all lean muscle and angles and soft lips. Someplace in the back of Dean’s head he always kind of assumed that he’d end up with a chick if he ever did manage to settle down, but this very distinctly guy-shaped person is proving him wrong at every turn.

Sure, Dean can still appreciate attractive folks, but that’s as far as he ever wants it to go. At the end of the day, the fact of the matter is that where Dean used to picture falling into bed alone, he now pictures sleeping beside Cas.

“Should we move this to the bedroom?” Cas murmurs against Dean’s mouth.

“Hell yeah, we should,” Dean chuckles back.

That’s how Dean finds himself ten minutes later – naked and tangled up in Castiel’s arms. Sweat starts to form on his skin as they kiss and roll against each other. The friction of their erections trapped between their bellies is damn good, but it’s not enough. Dean wants more. Maybe he’ll never get enough of Cas.

“How do you want it, baby?” Dean asks, and nips at Cas’ earlobe.

Cas hums, pressing up into the heat of Dean’s body, and says, “Fuck me. Please.”

“So damn polite.”

“I try.”

Cas has to retrieve his lube, but as soon as he’s back in bed Dean is on him like an animal in seconds. He takes fistfuls of Cas’ hair to leverage him into a hard kiss, but the force melts away and they’re left all tender again, the air between them thick. Dean pulls away to stare at Cas, and Cas stares back. He wonders if Cas can feel it too, the snap of electricity sticking them together like gum on pavement.

Dean shifts back up to pop open the lube and get his fingers nice and wet. He doesn’t have to tell Cas what to do – Cas just spreads his legs wide. Dean groans at the sight, Cas with his hair all rucked up and his legs sprawled out and that tight ring of muscle just inviting him in. With his dry hand he props Cas up a little more, and then pushes a single finger in to the knuckle.

Castiel lets out a deep rumble of pleasure and pushes back to take Dean in more.

You forget how sexy a dude can be sometimes until he’s all naked and sweaty and open for you, rocking back and forth on your hand. Castiel says lowly, “More, Dean. Now.”

“Your wish is my command,” Dean winks. He slides a second finger alongside the first and strums on Cas’ prostate. He grins when Cas bucks into the touch and throws his head back against his pillows, lips open in a silent moan. With his unoccupied hand, Dean rubs his palm over Cas’ arm and praises, “So fuckin’ awesome, Cas. Perfect like this.”

Through his eyelashes Cas gives him this wistful kind of look, almost like he doesn’t believe the words that Dean is saying.

In that case, he’ll just have to show him, won’t he? Dean leans in for a kiss at the same moment that he adds a third digit to the stretch. Cas is panting. His mouth is open and he’s starting to look desperate, overtaken by a wild look in his eye.

“You ready for me?” Dean asks, and ghosts his lips down the column of Cas’ throat, nuzzling into him.

“Yes, please, just go,” Cas says.

Dean pulls back his hand and slicks himself before he heaves Cas onto his lap and starts to push inside him. He’s hot and tight and goddamn _heaven_. Dean wants nothing more than to be as close as he can to Cas, to be inside him and around him and tangled with him. Cas clings to Dean with his arms around Dean’s neck. Guttural noises tear out of him when Dean begins to rock steadily in and out of him.

Dean curls his fist around Cas’ cock, determined to get him off before he takes his. He jacks him hard and Cas loses it. He squeezes his eyes shut and hooks his legs together around Dean’s waist, meeting Dean’s every move with a thrust back and a noise that goes straight from Dean’s ears to his dick.

“Damn, baby,” Dean curses, “Look at you, all fucked out and pretty. You’re fuckin’ awesome, so friggin’ awesome.”

Something about that hits the right button. Cas gasps and comes hot and sticky between them. But still, Cas doesn’t miss a beat. He clings to Dean and rides back into Dean’s body, holding their bodies close together and cradling Dean with his limbs. Dean comes with his face pressed up against Cas’ neck, kissing his damp skin.

When Dean finally has the energy to pull out of Cas and snuggle up behind him, he says, “You know you’re friggin’ amazing, right?”

Cas replies, “You make me feel that way, yes.”

“Good. I never want you to feel any other way, ever again.”

Dean presses his lips to Cas’ shoulder and wriggles in closer, sated and whole.

**X**

“Sam, my cell is ringing, can you grab that?” Dean calls from the kitchen.

Sam groans but pushes himself up from the couch. He can’t complain, since whatever the hell Dean has sizzling in his frying pan smells amazing. He reaches for the cell and sees Castiel’s name on the screen.

“Hey Castiel,” Sam greets, “Dean’s making stuff in the kitchen.”

“Sam, I need you to do something,” Castiel says.

The panic in his voice takes all the teasing out of Sam’s body. He straightens his spine and says, “Yeah, anything.”

“Turn to the news.”

“…Okay. Lemme find the remote.”

Sam flicks through the channels until he finds what he’s looking for. A young mother and her crying baby fill the screen. Sam only catches the last half of whatever’s she’s saying as she bounces her kid on her hip: “ _Charlie and I were just on our walk, and that’s – that’s when we found her. It was terrible._ ” Her voice breaks and the woman starts to cry. “ _She had no clothes and she was bleeding, and the knife was still inside her!_ ”

The camera switches to a harried-looking reporter who says into her microphone, “ _Only moments ago, the fourth victim of the Sioux Falls killer was found. Sources say that this may be the final victim, as the murderer left his knife behind at the scene. We have heard that the knife may have his name on the handle, but police will give no confirmation at this time_.”

There are sirens. It takes Sam too long to realize that the sirens aren’t on the television but just outside the apartment building. Dean’s cellphone falls from his hand and clatters onto the coffee table.

“Hey, hey, where are you –”

Sam doesn’t linger to hear the rest of his brother’s sentence. He rushes to his bedroom and throws open the lid of the box where he keeps his knives. His pocketknife is there but no, no, no, the knife that Dean gave him as a gift is _gone_. He slams the lid of his box shut and scrambles to sift through his dirty laundry, turning out the pockets of every pair of jeans that he owns and coming up empty handed.

This can’t be happening.

It _can’t_ be.

“Dean!” he shouts, and throws open his bedroom door.

 Sam doesn’t realize that he’s about to cry until Dean rushes forward and grabs his arm, steadying him. He says, “Whoa, whoa. What’s going on? Breathe, dude.”

“My knife is gone,” Sam says, “My knife is gone, and there’s another dead kid, and the news said they found a knife at the scene and _my knife is gone_.”

“Hey, hey,” Dean says, and holds up a hand, “I’m sure you just misplaced the sucker. It’ll be –”

But then there’s a knock at the door. Both Dean and Sam turn to look at it, and then Sam starts to cry in earnest.

“Stay behind me,” Dean commands. He lets go of Sam’s arm and opens the apartment door. Sam can’t see who’s on the other side, but Dean’s snappish, “What do you want?” confirms his worst fears.

“We have an arrest warrant for your brother, Mr. Winchester. Please step aside.”

That’s Victor’s voice.

Sam’s heart plummets when the police officers enter, two pushing back Dean. It’s a blur. Dean is yelling, telling them that they have the wrong guy and that Sam is good kid and that he’d never do what they’re accusing him of and _he’s being framed, goddamnit_ , but Sam doesn’t say a word. He stays perfectly stil as Victor pulls Sam’s arms behind him and cuffs his wrists together.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SO sorry that I've been slacking on this. I've been having a rough time with getting any sort of writing out, but I think that (maybe?) I've pushed past the nonsense, since this chapter came along pretty nicely.


	9. I am Not a Criminal

**Chapter Track: Dreams of Cannibalism – Typhoon**

**_I am Not a Criminal_ **

Though Victor tries his damndest, Sam slouches back in his plastic chair in the interrogation room and refuses to say a word until Dean arrives. His mind may be racing at a mile a minute and his heartbeat may be so loud that he can feel it in his ears, but he’s still not stupid enough to talk to the cops without somebody to keep him in check. He _didn’t do it_ – but that won’t stop them from pulling words from his mouth and trying to scare him into submission.

Fortunately, Dean makes it to the station only minutes after Victor closes the door to the interrogation room, and bursts through the door with a guest badge. He’s out of breath, red in the face and panting.

“Sammy, don’t say a damn thing,” he commands, and points a finger only a few inches from his face. Still out of breath, he pulls out the seat beside Sam and says, “He didn’t do it. Sam was with me all morning.”

“The body was discovered this morning, but time of death was established at just after midnight,” explains Victor, eyes narrowed at them, hawk-like, “Were you with your brother then, Mr. Winchester?”

That gets Dean to shut up. Sam and Dean exchange glances. They both know that Dean wasn’t at home last night; he was at work at the club. And Sam? He was out cold, asleep.

“I was at work,” Dean lowly confesses.

“And where is that?” Victor asks.

“The Love Club.”

Victor cocks a brow but scratches a note onto the pad in front of him. Dean stares back at him with hardened eyes, daring him to say something untoward about his night job. But Victor doesn’t comment – he just flicks his attention back to Sam and asks, “And where were you, Sam?”

Sam looks over at Dean. It seems like a normal question, but he figures at this point that it’s worth consulting an adult before he opens his mouth.

“Go ahead,” Dean says.

Sam goes on, “I was asleep by then.” He knows it isn’t enough. Victor and Dean know too, judging by the looks on their faces.

Victor exhales. He asks, “Sam, if it wasn’t you, then who was it? How the hell did your knife make it into the body of a murder victim?”

“I don’t know,” Sam snaps. Dean gives him a pointed look, and he takes a breath to calm himself down as much as he can. He clenches his hands in his lap and says, “Maybe you should check the knife for fingerprints. I know you guys can do that.”

“Son, it’s your knife. Your prints’ll be there.”

“Yeah, but the killer’s prints will be there too,” Sam says. His voice sounds confident even to his own ears, despite the fact that he knows as well as Victor does that the murderer could have worn gloves to do the deed.

Victor sighs and shakes his head. A long silence rolls out between them, tense enough that Dean reaches over to squeeze Sam’s arm. Sam thinks that it might be more to reassure Dean himself than to comfort Sam.

“What’s gonna happen to him?” Dean finally asks.

Victor says, “I’m thinking. Give me a second.”

A second it turns out to be, and Victor sits straighter to tell them, “I’m gonna hold you overnight, Sam.”

“What?” Dean shoots to his feet at that, “You can’t do that!”

“Yeah, they can,” Sam says, quiet. Something low and heavy in his stomach tells him to be resigned to this, that there’s nothing he can do and that he’ll be going to jail, maybe forever. Maybe they’ll even try him as an adult. It wouldn’t be surprising, given the brutal nature of the killings.

In all honesty, it feels like good old Winchester bad luck. Parents dead, poor as shit – it figures that Sam would go down for a crime that isn’t his, too.

Dean keeps arguing and Victor tries to reason with him, but Sam tunes them out. When Dean starts to shout the words break through the haze and he says, “Dean.”

Both his brother and Victor pause and turn to him.

“It’ll be okay,” Sam says. He doesn’t know if that’s true. It’s a bald-faced lie, but it’s all that he’s got, “I’ll be fine, all right?” This may be the least okay that Sam has ever been in his entire life, but Dean’s distress trumps his own right now. He doesn’t want to make this worse than it already is. If Dean gets himself arrested because he can’t stay calm for two seconds, then they’ll be even more fucked.

“Sammy,” Dean says, “You sure?”

Sam’s throat is too tight and mouth too dry to respond, so he just nods.

They let Dean hug Sam at least, though outside of the interrogation room it feels like dozens of pairs of eyes are watching them, now. Dean’s arms tighten around Sam, his palm warm on the curve of Sam’s spine. When he pulls back, he promises, “We’ll get you out of this, you hear? Don’t worry about a goddamn thing.”

The spooky thing about Dean’s reassurance is that the look on his face reads nothing like his words, and that makes Sam’s heart pull lower and ever lower. At this point, he’s pretty sure that Dean is lying for his own sake, trying to tell himself that they’ll make it out by the skin of their teeth like they always freaking do.

When the cops lead Sam away, he throws his eyes over his shoulder. Dean still stands where they hugged.

He looks scared.

That makes Sam scared, too.

**X**

Dean ends up being herded to Cas’ house by the man himself. He makes Dean sit in the kitchen while he paces back and forth, throwing together a cup of cocoa to melt the ice in Dean’s veins. Dean knows he doesn’t deserve this attention. He fucked up so hard that Sammy’s been arrested. That’s it. Sam’ll get carted off to a foster home and Dean won’t get to see him until he’s eighteen.

If Sam even wiggles his way out of the prison fuckery, anyway.

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, then you need to stop it,” Castiel says, scowling at Dean before he hands him a fancy-looking cup of fragrant hot cocoa.

Dean warms his palms against the hot ceramic and says, “I can’t stop, Cas. I thought – I made Sammy move here ‘cause I thought I’d be leaving trouble behind. Turns out instead that we just ran headfirst into something even worse. Sioux Falls was my idea. This whole damn thing is my fault.”

“It _isn’t_ ,” Castiel says, an edge now to his voice.

Dean lifts his mug to his lips and takes a sip of the hot chocolate. It isn’t what he wants. He needs something stronger, something that’ll warm him and let him forget the shitstorm blowing all around them. The mug makes a crack of noise when Dean sets it back down on Cas’ kitchen table.

“I need something stronger than this,” Dean says, “You got any liquor? I’m not picky.”

“I’m not giving you any liquor.”

“Come on, Cas. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick,” comes Cas’ stiff reply, “I’m looking out for you. You need to have a clear head to deal with this, and you still need to go to work at the garage tomorrow morning. You have to stay sharp.”

“Why? So I can watch everything I’ve tried to build up just fucking crumble and burn?” snaps Dean.

Cas frowns, but steps up behind Dean’s chair, and threads his fingers through the short hairs at the base of Dean’s neck, scratching blunt edges of his nails against Dean’s skin. He stays there while he speaks, keeping his hands on Dean, “It won’t. You’ve given Sam a lot, and he knows how to handle himself. You need to be able to hold yourself the same way, if not for your sake, then for your brother’s.”

Dean knows that Cas is right. Now, when everything is going sour and he needs to be at his sharpest to get a handle on it, is not the time to get shit-faced drunk. Unfortunately for Dean, he craves liquor most at his darkest days, the same days when he knows logically that he shouldn’t. He wonders if his dad knew that he shouldn’t drink, and if he still guzzled down Jack with that knowledge hanging in the back of his mind.

“Okay,” concedes Dean. If there’s anything that he doesn’t want to be, it’s his father. And if there’s one thing that John Winchester was known for, it was his drinking. Dean doesn’t put his problems away in the bottom of a bottle. There’s a need that creeps up on him sometimes, to drink and forget. Dean can’t forget right now.

Maybe Cas can read minds, because he tilts Dean’s head up and presses their lips together. It’s not harried or demanding, just a kiss. It’s nice. He never realized that he’d like this kind of thing, that he’d like kisses for kisses’ sake, with one person – a person that feels like home.

But just because he’s found a home in one person besides Sammy doesn’t mean that he’s going to give up the fight for his brother.

“Everything will work out,” Cas tells him, running the pad of his thumb over the rise and fall of Dean’s cheekbones.

“If you’d – damn it, Cas, if you’d been with me n’ Sam through all the shit we’ve seen, you’d know why I don’t believe that,” says Dean, “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t. You hope for something, it’ll hurt more than it ever would if you just expect it.”

“Dean,” Cas softly says.

“I’ve spent most of my life getting screwed over,” Dean tells him. He tears his gaze away from Cas’ eyes and stares at his palms instead. It takes a moment before he’s able to say, “You know, my mom and dad didn’t get along too good. I mean – I think I remember when they got along, but it’s fuzzy. Mostly I just remember my dad telling my mom we couldn’t afford stuff, like new shoes or name brand mac n’ cheese. Later I found out it was ‘cause my dad blew everything in poker games with the guys. When I was little I just thought my dad was mean.”

Cas shifts and pulls a chair closer to Dean so that he can sit and face him. He rubs Dean’s arm, but Dean just shakes his head and says, “Don’t say anything. It’ll just make it harder to get out.” He licks his lips and exhales.

“Point is, one of these fights killed my mom. It was an accident. I can’t even remember what my dad was on my mom’s case about, just that she was yellin’ louder than I’d ever heard and she ran out of the house. I followed her – got there just in time to watch her slip on a patch of black ice and crack her head on the pavement. Shouldn’t have been bad, ‘cept dad never shoveled the sidewalk like he said he would, so it was all icy and jagged from all the kids walking on it. This big chunk of ice smashed her skull. She died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

Dean shifts. He never did know how he would feel if he ever told anyone the whole sordid past of the Winchester brothers, but he didn’t think it would be this. It’s not cathartic, and he doesn’t feel age-old guilt like he does most of the time when he remembers his mom. Instead, the words are just words.

“Anyway, I guess drinking runs in Winchester veins. Everything that dad did before mom passed got ten times worse after, and it was up to me to take care of Sammy. When dad bit it, I thought that me and Sam could find someplace new and start over. Fresh place where no one knew us. I should’ve known that that was stupid to think – and now I’m sitting here, asking you for a fuckin’ drink like I’m miniature John goddamn Winchester, wasting away instead of taking care of my own,” Dean’s volume rises and he slams his fist on the table.

“You are not your father, Dean,” Cas tells him.

Dean looks up, his hands shaking where they rest on the table in fists. He licks his lips and manages, “What?”

“You are _not_ your father,” repeats Cas, “You never let your grief overcome you. You carried on, and you took care of Sam, and you’ll keep taking care of him. Because you’re good. You’re a good man, a good person, and one way or another, we are going to make everything better for you and for Sam.”

Castiel pushes himself back out of his chair and cups Dean’s jaw, pulling him into a kiss. It’s hard but isn’t angry. Dean’s hands uncurl and he shifts to grip Cas’ waist pulling him close to kiss along his jaw and throat.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean hoarsely says when they pull apart, “I keep thinking you can’t be real, but you’re right friggin’ here. You keep kissing me like that and I’m gonna have to keep you forever.”

“I suppose I’d better brush up on my kissing ability.”

Dean laughs. His throat is dry and sore and the sound is scratchy, but the laughter still makes him lighter inside, makes him hope the way that he told himself not to. He rests his head awkwardly against Cas’ chest, not bothering to stand, while Cas remains on his feet. Castiel’s fingers find their way back to Dean’s hair, stroking.

“Here’s hoping,” Dean murmurs.

**X**

They release Sam on lack of evidence.

Sam knew it would happen. Thing is, he didn’t know that it would happen the way that it did. The knife was clean. Completely.

When they step outside of the police station, Sam’s heart sinks to his feet. There are people, tons of people, sitting out and shouting. They yell _MURDERER_ at him and some middle-aged lady throws a rock.

“Hey!” shouts Dean, but Cas reels Dean in with a tug of his t-shirt before he can start anything that’s worse than this already.

Castiel sheds his hoodie, some worn-out maroon thing that’s seen better days, and says, “Sam, put this on. Pull up the hood. We need to get you to the Impala safely.” Sam takes it when Cas shoves it at him, and obeys, pulling his arms through sleeves too short for his arms, and tugging the hood up over his head.  

With the reluctant help of a couple of police officers, they manage to break through the crowd of jeerers, and from there jog across the parking lot to Dean’s car so they can get out of here without being pelted by pebbles or chased by an angry mob. Sam never foresaw being arrested in his life, and even while he sat around in overnight lockup, he didn’t think that he’d be unsafe.

His heart is racing by the time that they clear the lot and jump into the car. Sam is still in the process of buckling his seatbelt over his chest as Dean peels away from the police station and onto the road. He turns right – the opposite direction from their house. They must be going someplace else. Sam doesn’t ask.

“They say why they let you go?” Dean asks, after a few silent minutes of driving. He hasn’t even turned on the radio.

“The knife was clean.”

“So, wait, they didn’t find any prints at all?” Dean echoes. He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel of the Impala, but that’s the only sign of discomfort that he shows. Sam guesses that he probably has Cas to thank for this, and sends his silent gratitude to whatever deity may be listening.

“They didn’t tell me that,” Sam says, “I overheard it. So don’t just blab about it to Bobby and Lisa or whoever you talk to. All they actually told me was that they didn’t have enough to keep me anymore. “

“Yeah, ‘cause you didn’t do it,” Dean mutters.

Sam decides that the time is finally right to ask, “Um, where are we going?”

“We’re heading to Cas’ place,” answers Dean, “We, ah. Cas and I talked about it and we think it’ll be safer for you there than at the apartment. We’re moving in. For now, at least.”

“What?” Not that Sam will miss their shitty apartment, but what the hell?

“Yeah, Daisy’s already set over there, and I got some of our stuff moved, too. You can help if you want, but it’s cool if you don’t, too.”

“I’m good.”

Sam knows that this is stupid to be mad about. He feels like he should have been consulted even though ultimately decision regarding their living situation lays in Dean’s hands alone. He doesn’t voice his frustration, though, just sinks lower into the backseat and folds his arms over his chest. He feels empty and scared, and as they pull up to a tiny house in a tidy neighborhood, Sam wonders if that feeling will ever go away.

When Castiel unlocks the door, Daisy runs for Sam and knocks him back against the wall, licking his face while her tail wags wildly. Sam gets her to calm down after a while of ear-scratches, but even when she sits down her tail thumps against the floor.

“Where are we supposed to sleep?” he asks. He tries not to sound unenthusiastic, but even to his own ears he’s weary.

Any light that was in Dean’s face drains from it, and he pushes his fingers back through his hair. Sam wants to feel bad for the barb at Dean, but instead he just feels a sticky kind of satisfaction while his brother bumbles through a response. Dean says, “Um. I – me n’ Cas cleared out the spare room for you. It’s bigger than the one back at the apartment.”

“And what? We’re sharing it?” he snips.

“Your brother will be sharing my room,” Castiel says.

Jeez. Sam knew that Dean was traversing new worlds with his English teacher, but he didn’t realize it was as serious as moving in and sharing a bed. He wonders if this should make him feel awkward, but instead it drains the resentment out of his body. Guilt makes his shoulders wilt. He says, “Sorry. I just – I know you’re doing your best. This whole thing, it’s…making me not myself.”

“S’all good, Sammy,” Dean says, “Let’s get you set up.”

The bedroom turns out to be nice, nicer than any bedroom that Sam has ever had. It’s simple, but he thinks he might feel safe within those four slate-blue walls. When he sits down on the queen-sized bed, the metal bedframe squeaks. He doesn’t mind.

A quick look around tells Sam that Dean and Castiel truly did start a move. Some of Sam’s things have already found homes in the bedroom. His quilt is folded at the foot of his new bed, his school supplies and papers are tucked away in a scuffed-up desk in the corner, and he sees a few items of clothing hanging in his closet.

“This is nice,” he finally says.

Dean smiles. The grip of Sam’s guilt loosens at the expression, and he offers a small smile back.

Dean and Castiel don’t linger in his room. They tell Sam that it’s okay if he wants to lock the door and that he’s welcome to privacy while they journey to the apartment to pack up and transport more of their stuff into Cas’ place. In their absence, Sam texts Jess, but doesn’t get any replies. It’s disappointing, but not unexpected.

But then, there could be any number of reasons for Jess not texting. Maybe she lost her phone, or she’s taking a nap, or she’s out with friends and is too busy to text him back. Sam’s gut wants him to believe any of those things, but his head knows that whatever he and Jess had is probably over. Being arrested on suspicion of murder isn’t exactly a sterling quality in a boyfriend.

Sam falls asleep with his phone in his hand.

When he wakes, there are no new text messages in his inbox, and he hears moving around from beyond the bedroom door. Sam slides off of the bed and pokes his head out. The small hallway is unlit, but electric light pours in from the kitchen. The smell of something cooking hangs in the air.

He doesn’t announce his presence right away, and instead hangs back in the darkness. Castiel’s at the stove stirring something with a wooden spoon, and Dean has a chair pulled up beside him. He’s sitting on it backwards, chin rested on the back. When Castiel leans down and kisses his brother’s forehead, Dean bats him away and laughs.

There’s a pinch of something in his belly. A little of it is jealousy, watching his brother being so happy while Sam’s miserable and alone, but the bigger piece is relieved. Dean never takes stuff for himself. Castiel – that’s something just for Dean. The way that Dean looks at Cas, and the way that Cas looks at Dean…it’s something else.

“Hey,” Sam says to announce his presence.

Both Cas and Dean turn to look at him. The expression of laughter on Dean’s face fades into something softer, and he asks, “How’re you feeling, dude?”

“I’m okay,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to talk about it, so he asks, “What’s on the stove?”

“Cas is making veggie stew,” says Dean, “He whipped up some pork chops, too, ‘cause I told him there’s no way I’m eating plain old veggie stew without something decent.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

Sam eats well when the meal finishes cooking. It’s nice for a change to know that Dean isn’t the one that put together the food, and that he actually allowed somebody else to do it for him. Sam knows that Dean probably wouldn’t ever admit it out loud, but he’s letting himself be taken care of. Thank Christ.

This is why Sam backs Castiel up when he insists on doing the dishes, and says that he’ll help out. Dean grumbles something about being babied and banishes himself to the living room, where he kicks his feet up on Cas’ coffee table and settles into the couch with Daisy draped over his lap to watch Dr. Sexy reruns.

“Thanks for this,” Sam says to Castiel.

“Not a problem,” he replies, “Although I’m certain that you’ll be removed from my English class considering the circumstances.”

Sam shrugs his shoulders and says, “Not like I won’t see you every day now.”

Castiel chuckles, “True,” and pauses rinsing to say, “I told Dean last night and I’ll tell you now, you are going to get through this debacle like you always do. This isn’t going to last forever. Optimistically they’ll find the killer, and at the very least you know that you’re going to be off to college in a matter of months.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, because there’s nothing else to say.

After dishes, Cas wanders to join Dean, but Sam tells them that he’s turning in for the night, declining an invitation to pick out a movie. Even though Sam’s head is whirring on full-blast, his limbs are heavy with the need to sleep. He’s going to have to go back to school tomorrow whether he likes it or not. It’ll be easier to face with a full night’s sleep.

He plugs his phone into the wall. Still no texts. He figures at the rate he’s going, it can’t hurt to send one more.

_9:53 Sam: Goodnight Jess._

Sam closes his eyes but sleep doesn’t come, so he just stares up at his ceiling.

**X**

Though Castiel always suspected that some of his coworkers found him strange, he never experienced open hostility before this morning. When he ducks into the teacher’s lounge to store his lunch in the refrigerator and pour himself a new cup of coffee, no one speaks to him. All conversation stops when the others see him, and even when he turns away from their stares, Cas can feel their eyes on his back as he fills his travel mug with the remains of the faculty coffee pot.

He makes to sit down like he always does, but is stopped by a hand and a, “Don’t you have work that you should be doing, Mr. Novak?”

He frowns.

“All of us do, yes,” he replies, pulling a chair out.

“You’re not currently welcome here,” says one of the math and business instructors – Naomi, he thinks – “The rest of the staff feels that your recent behavior is inappropriate and we’d rather that you spend mornings in your classroom, not in the lounge.”

“And Metatron is a proponent of this change?”

Naomi’s lips twist and she states, “He will be.”

Cas knows that he doesn’t need to listen to them, but the discomfort wins over his desire to irritate his coworkers, and he turns on his heel, striding to his classroom without another word. He uses the time to check his e-mail and begin on the day’s tasks – sure enough, a message from Ms. Barnes to himself and to principal Metatron informs Castiel that Sam has been pulled from his class and will be assigned to another teacher.

Only ten minutes after he sits at his desk, there’s a knock at the door. Before Castiel can respond, Gabriel swaggers in. He asks, “Why are you all cooped up in here? It’s not time for work yet, overachiever.”

“Our peers informed me that I am not welcome in the staff lounge,” he says, turning his chair to face Gabe.

Gabriel makes a face. He says, “The fuck is that shit? Don’t pay attention their crap. Half of those people have sticks up their asses anyway. I’m pretty sure they dislike me more than they dislike you. Well. Maybe we’re equal now. Whatever. Haters to the left. We don’t roll that way.”

Gabriel being Gabriel lightens Castiel’s mood, and instead of shooing him as he would on any other morning, Castiel lets Gabriel talk his ear off until the students start filing in.

It’s an odd day. None of his students misbehave at all save for Ruby Waites, and when Castiel would normally be irritated by her bad behavior, he finds himself relieved that at least somebody is acting as though nothing has changed at all. Because nothing did change, frankly. Sam Winchester is no killer and anyone that has spoken with the child should know that. Victor Henriksen should know that. His fellow staff members should know that.

He can’t be this angry in the middle of a school day.

To keep his mind off of the raw fury brewing deep down in his gut, Castiel pulls out the papers from his freshman honors class and scoots his keyboard aside to grade them. Most of them are terrible, but one or two are interesting enough to hold his attention and make him forget all that has happened in the past few days.

“Because I thought that you’d think better of me!”

Sam Winchester’s voice startles Castiel out of his grading trance. He stands up and peers around the edge of his classroom door. It is Sam, face red with frustration, and Jessica Moore.

“People don’t just get arrested for no reason,” Jessica snaps back.

“Yes, they _do_ ,” Sam says, “If you knew anything about the criminal justice system you would know that. Do I honestly look like somebody that could hurt another human being? Seriously. Tell me. I want to hear it from you.”

Jessica pauses. He voice is lower than before when she answers, “I don’t know, Sam. If you know so freaking much about criminal justice or whatever, shouldn’t you know that murderers don’t look the same? There isn’t a type, and you’re smart. I’m not sure you couldn’t do it.”

“Jesus,” Sam says, “Are you kidding me? If I’m so goddamn smart, then how the hell would I have left my knife in some poor girl’s body?”

“I _don’t know_ ,” Jessica repeats. She turns on her heel and flees down the hallway, toward the back stairs and one-door exit. Sam turns his head just enough to see Castiel before he makes a face and charges after her, sprinting through the school, blind to his surroundings.

Discomfort stirs in Castiel, and he closes his classroom door, walking swiftly in the direction that Sam and Jess left in.

At the end of the hallway, there’s no one there. Castiel walks up the stairs and finds the second floor hall just as empty as the one below it, so he pushes open the back door and steps outside. It’s cold and overcast, but thoughts of bringing a coat are far from his mind when he sees that the high school campus is all but deserted.

“Sam?” he calls.

There’s no answer.

“Sam!” he tries again, louder now, “Sam, it’s Castiel.”

The only response that comes is the whistle of the wind that makes tree branches shiver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaa sorry for the enormous delay. I know I said last time that I'd make sure that this chapter wouldn't take as long as the last did, and instead it took over twice as long. The good news is that I didn't have to force myself to sit down and write, and that this came naturally, which I think is a sign that whatever was going on up in my noggin is gone.
> 
> Thank you for your patience!


	10. The Curtain's Folding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, sorry it took five months to give you guys an update on this. I've been dealing with some stuff but I think I've finally turned a corner and there'll be more fic again. This is the final chapter before the epilogue - which I hope to have up by tomorrow night. Please look at the new tags and keep in mind that this chapter has warnings for mentions of child abuse, dissociative identity disorder, and general gore.

**Chapter Track: Posed to Death – The Faint**

**_The Curtain’s Folding_ **

The quiet left behind by Sam and Jessica concerns Castiel. Though in what capacity, he isn’t yet sure. Sam is a teenager and is bound to play hooky on one or two schooldays, but on the other side of the coin, playing hooky when there’s a serial murderer with a fondness for stabbing teenagers on the loose occurs to Cas as dangerous.

In the end, Castiel turns around and reenters the school building.

Worries for Sam get tucked neatly in the back of his mind as his later classes commence, and teaching swings to the forefront. He collects assignments and stacks them on his desk, and referees discussion on the chapters his students were meant to have read the night before. So when the day winds to a close, it surprises Castiel. He glances at the plastic clock mounted above his classroom door and his brows lift.

“It appears I have run out of time,” Cas says, “You’re free to go,” – the students leap into immediate motion, tucking things into folders and stashing binders in backpacks – “I’m not finished. Don’t forget that your two-page analysis on chapters eight to ten is due next class. I expect it typed and double-spaced. Have a good afternoon.”

There is…a lot to do after the class vacates the room. Castiel weaves through the desks to pick up trash and debris left by his pupils before he sits down to scroll through his e-mails. There is a reminder about the cheerleaders’ fundraising project coming up next week and about a staff meeting early in the morning tomorrow. Nothing else – so at least Cas’ workload is limited to the stack of assignments turned in by each of his classes.

_3:43 Castiel: Dean, I’ll be home late tonight. I have assignments to grade and I’d rather not take the work home._

_3:44 Dean: k. ily_

Castiel narrows his eyes at the text. ILY? _I love you_? Is this text supposed to be significant in that Dean is making a confession of love or did Dean simply type without thinking? He stares at his phone screen for a long while before he punches in a text back.

_3:49 Castiel: I love you too._

Dean doesn’t respond immediately, and so Cas sets his phone aside, pulling papers from his third-period ninth graders into his lap. Only a few words into the first paper Castiel can see that the author enjoys using semicolons but has no concept of how to use them correctly. He picks up his red pen and uncaps it with his teeth before setting in, marking every inappropriate semicolon with a red slash.

Outside the classroom window, the low afternoon sun dips into an orange sunset, colorful light piercing through the light provided from the fluorescent bulbs overhead and spilling over Castiel’s desk. By the time that he’s completed all he can handle in one night, the sun has disappeared entirely, replaced instead by a waxing crescent moon.

The Impala remains in front of the house, and Castiel smiles. He didn’t miss Dean before his shift at the club. Cas heads into the house through the garage. Dean is in their bedroom scrambling to get his work things together, tossing some sparkling something or other into his duffel. He pauses when Cas knocks on the doorframe.

“Heya, handsome,” Dean says. He crosses the room to place a kiss to Castiel’s cheek and goes on, “I’m gonna be late for work if I don’t hurry. There’s lasagna in the oven and I think Sam crashed in his room so try not to be too loud, ‘kay?”

“Of course,” Cas responds, and leans in for one more kiss before Dean zips his duffel closed and shoves his feet into shoes. Castiel watches him jog down the concrete steps to the sidewalk, and waves when Dean starts the car.

Only then does exhaustion wholly seep into Cas, from his tense neck down to where his right wrist is sore from holding a pen against paper for so long without reprieve. With a sigh, he flops back onto his couch and uses his remote to flick on the television, surfing through channels until he lands on a Dr. Sexy marathon. It’s nothing that he would have watched before meeting Dean, but now the melodrama calms him. It’s something normal, something to hold onto.

Castiel has seen this rerun before, the second part of a three-episode arc in which Dr. Piccolo goes missing. The other doctors jump to foul play, but in reality Dr. Piccolo is in another hospital a few states away, meeting her long-lost half-sister for the first time. The tears of the reunion lull Castiel into a sense of peace, and before he knows it, he is asleep.

But what seems like moments later, Dean’s frantic voice tears him from sleep. Castiel jerks up and sees Dean above him, duffel bag still on his shoulder and anxiety etched deep into his face. He smells like cigarette smoke and alcohol and sweat, as though he only just stepped through the doors of The Love Club and into the house.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks. He rubs absently at one eye and braces his hand against his back to crack the tension out of his spine.

“Sam’s not in his room,” Dean says, “His backpack’s not there either. I just assumed he was sleeping off a rough day, man, but his bed’s made and everything. It doesn’t even look like he came home. He would have called if the cops picked him up, right?”

The afternoon’s earlier events come flooding back to mind, of Sam and Jessica arguing and of their subsequent disappearance from sight as soon as Castiel followed after them. He gnaws on his lip and says, “I overheard Sam and Jess fighting with each other earlier. Jess said that she didn’t know if she believed Sam anymore about the murders. Perhaps they’ve made up?”

“He would have texted me,” Dean says, sure, and then falters, “Right?”

“He’s a teenager,” shrugs Castiel, “Who knows what may have happened? Don’t panic. I’ll pull some of my class records and see if I can find her emergency numbers.”

“Okay. Yeah. Okay.” Dean rakes his hands through his hair and Castiel wastes no time rising from his place on the couch to retrieve his laptop. He thanks his lucky stars that he had the foresight to ask his students to fill out information cards at the beginning of the semester, just in case of something dire in his classroom.

It takes only moments to find Jessica’s card scanned among his student records, and he pulls it up. A quick dial later, Jessica’s mother’s voice answers against Castiel’s ear.

“Hello?” Her response is clouded by sleepiness.

“Mrs. Moore?” Castiel says.

“This is she.”

“I apologize for calling at this hour – I’m Castiel Novak, your daughter’s teacher? I’m also currently seeing Sam Winchester’s older brother, and Sam hasn’t come home. Have you seen him? Or has Jessica, maybe?”

There’s an exhale on the other end of the phone, and Mrs. Moore replies, “No, we haven’t. Did you – I mean. I mean no offense, but did you try the police station? Given the recent circumstances…”

“That will be my next call,” Castiel confirms.

In the background, he hears shuffling and then a tinny pantomime of Jessica’s voice, and the muffled noise of her mother replying with her palm pressed over the receiver so that Cas doesn’t overhear. A beat later, Mrs. Moore returns to the conversation. She says, “Jess says that she and Sam got into a tiff earlier today, but that’s the last that she saw him. I’ll see if I can’t ask around the neighborhood, though. I doubt he could have gotten far without being noticed, with how tall he is.”

Normally Castiel would offer a chuckle to that, but instead he just replies with a grim, “Thank you,” and hangs up the phone. Sam’s absence leaves a sinking feeling deep in Castiel’s gut. Despite what the rest of the town may think, he knows that Sam isn’t the kind of kid to run off without a word.

So where could he have gone?

**X**

Dean is torn between the sensation of nausea rolling around in his gut at the thought of his little brother missing, and the strong desire to strangle that brother for being missing at a time like this in the first place. The rocking of the car and the sound of the radio only makes it worse, but when Dean reaches over and switches off the sound, he has only his own thoughts and the sound of Cas’ breathing beside him to occupy his mind. All he can picture is Sam dead somewhere in a ditch.

Regardless of what the cops in this stupid town think, Sammy isn’t the kind of kid that just up and leaves on a whim.

And here Dean is, driving straight to the jackasses that want his little brother’s head on a platter, well-done. On any other occasion Dean would tell the fuzz to stick it where the sun don’t shine, but even Dean knows that the police have better resources for finding missing people than he does by himself.

“Dean –” starts Cas.

“Don’t,” Dean says, and so Cas doesn’t. Still, after a few moments of quiet, Cas reaches over and squeezes Dean’s knee through his jeans. It doesn’t help much, just a little, but it’s enough to ease Dean through the remainder of the car trip to the police station.

Inside the station, Dean makes a beeline for the front desk and announces to the cop behind the glass, “My little brother is missing. He’s a minor. I need to file a report. Now.”

“Please,” Castiel adds. Dean casts him a sour look, only to receive raised brows in return.

“It’ll be a few minutes,” says the officer, “I’ll have to see if there’s somebody available to take the report.”

“Screw that,” Dean snaps, “My teenage brother is fucking missing and you want to me to what? Piddle around while you fucks stick your thumbs up your asses and pretend like you’re contributing to society? Get me somebody right damn now.”

“Sir, please calm down,” replies the cop, face stony and long-suffering.

“Calm down?” Dean takes a step forward, but Cas wraps his hand around his wrist and tugs him back.

“Dean,” he says, “If you keep this up, they’ll never want to help. You don’t have to calm down, but you do have to act like a civilized human being. Please. For Sam’s sake, just watch your behavior.”

Dean wants Cas to be wrong, but knows that he isn’t. He turns back to the police officer at the front desk and manages a strained, “Sorry. I just want to find my brother.”

“I understand, sir.”

When the officer disappears from sight and back into the station’s offices, Cas guides Dean to sit on one of the chairs in the small waiting area. The thin cushion does nothing to mask the hardness of the seat, and Dean shifts around uncomfortably before giving up and rubbing his hands over his face. He’s on the brink of falling apart, and there’s no way to stop it – not until they find Sammy, anyway.

That kid is Dean’s whole life. What is he supposed to do if he loses his brother? Sure, he has Cas, and no way in hell would you catch Dean tossing away the significance of Castiel, but Sam is blood and he’s the only blood that Dean has left alive on this earth. It’s always been the two of them against the world.

Lucky for them, as soon as the cops realize that it’s Sam Winchester’s older brother trying to fill out a missing persons report, they start to scramble. Victor Henriksen appears out of thin air, all seriousness and hard eyes, and asks, “What do you mean your brother is missing?”

“Exactly what I said,” Dean replies, trying to keep his tone even, “He never came home from school. I know you don’t think that he’s a gold star kid or whatever, but I promise you he’s not the kind of kid that just up and runs off.”

“He’s under suspicion of murder, Mr. Winchester,” says Henriksen, “Something like that could make anybody run.”

“Not Sam.”

“We’re just going to have to wait it out,” Victor says, “If Sam isn’t back by the end of the day, then we’ll take a serious look at the report. For now, you’re just going to have to sit tight.”

Cas stands back from Dean when they shove their way out of the police station, fuming. He shouts, “I can’t believe they can fucking do that!”

Cas, wisely, doesn’t respond, just rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he fumbles inside his jacket pocket for the keys to the Impala. Each of them climbs into the car, but after starting it, Dean can’t find it in him to drive anywhere yet. He clenches his fists around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

“I guess we’ll just have to look for Sam ourselves,” Dean finally says, “We’ll make a pit stop at home and grab some coffee, ‘cause I’m not sleeping until I find my brother.”

Only when Dean pulls the Impala into the driveway of the house, the headlights fall on a figure on the porch. At first hope hits Dean full-force and he thinks that Sam made it home – that he just got locked out of the house and was out being a normal dumb kid. But the feeling is snuffed out as quickly as it comes when he realizes that while there is a teenager on their front porch, it is not Sam.

It’s Jess.

“Jess, what are you doing out here? It’s cold as balls,” Dean says.

“My mom told me that Sam never came home,” she replies, teeth chattering, “I know, um. I said some things to him. They were pretty shitty, I guess. There’s no way that Sam would just up and disappear like this. He has _plans_. And, y’know, his family’s super important.”

“What happened?” Cas asks, “After you and Sam argued? I came outside after you but you both had already gone.”

Jess rubs her hands together to warm them up, and Dean takes this as a cue to open the front door. Cas sets to work on brewing coffee for the three of them, while Dean stares Jess down and waits for her to tell them what the hell happened.

“He got into some car,” Jess says, “I just figured it was a friend, but he kind of doesn’t have many friends. The windows were super tinted and I couldn’t see who was driving. It was just this really ugly car. I think it was maroon but it was all faded and the paint was peeling.”

At least that’s a fairly distinct description. Dean considers relaying this information to the police, but then anger flares up in his belly when he remembers that the bastards don’t think that Sam’s in any actual trouble. Adrenaline swarms through him and his heart beats so hard he can feel it in his skull.

“The whole freaking town is on his ass right now,” says Dean, “Who the hell is cool enough with him to give him a ride?”

At this, Cas pauses at the kitchen counter and turns around to face Dean and Jess. He wets his lips with his tongue and says, “Waites.”

“Who?”

“Ruby Waites,” Cas says, “She’s a student in one of my classes. Incredibly bright, but lacking in work ethic.”

“Shit,” Jess says, “That’s right. Sam’s been eating lunch with her sometimes ‘cause she’s like the only person at school that isn’t afraid of him. I don’t know anything about her, though. I don’t even know where she lives. God, you don’t think –”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Dean interrupts, holding up a hand, “Cas, you got one of those emergency contact paper thingies for this Ruby chick at all?”

“I’ll see,” replies Castiel, and he breaks away from the coffee machine to open his laptop where it rests on the kitchen table. He takes a seat and punches his password into the computer, clicking around with his eyes narrowed in focus. He grunts in success not seconds later, and swings the computer around so that Dean can see the number.

Dean grabs for his cell and dials the number. He doesn’t give a shit about waking anybody up at this point. He’ll knock down the damn door to Ruby Waites’ house if it means that he’ll get Sammy back home safe.

To Dean’s equal parts surprise and relief, somebody picks up the phone.

“What do you want?” A male voice answers, words sticking together the way that John’s used to when he drank himself to the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

“Ruby. Is there a Ruby that lives here?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, sometimes,” replies the stranger, “Y’got her old man. _Alastair_ Waites.” He emphasizes ‘Alastair’ with a hiss.

“Well, is she home?”

“Nah.”

“Do you know where she is?” asks Dean.

“How the fuck should I know? What she does is her own damn business. Who the hell’re you, in any case? You some kind of pervert? ‘Cause you’re asking too many questions, and I don’t like it one damn bit.”

“No, you dick,” Dean snaps, “I’m looking for my brother and your fucking daughter’s looking pretty good for having her way with him. So you back the fuck off and tell me where –”

Alastair hangs up the phone while Dean is mid-rant.

“Shit,” Dean says, and throws his cell down on the kitchen table. He rakes both hands through his hair and paces the perimeter of the small kitchen. He wracks his brain for what to do, where to go, anything. He presses his fingernails against his palms when he thinks about crawling back to the cops with the new information. There’s no way in hell that he’s going back to the station, but –

Dean turns on his heel and throws open his work duffel, shifting props and skimpy clothes until he finds what he’s looking for: Victor Henriksen’s direct line. Normally he wouldn’t bother trying with guys like Victor, but Dean’s desperate for any way to help find his brother. He snatches his phone from where he threw it and dials with purpose.

“Victor Henriksen. How may I help you?”

“Henriksen, it’s Dean Winchester. I know you said you’re not searching for Sam tonight but I’m getting fuckin’ desperate here. Sam’s girlfriend says she saw him leave school in some beater car and I guess Cas is thinking he’s off with some Ruby Waites chick. I can’t track her down. Is there anything – _anything –_ you can do to help me? Please.”

Victor lets out a long, tired-sounding sigh. He says, “I know the girl you’re talking about. She’s had a couple of arrests for possession out on the bad side of town. I’ll send some guys to check it out. Don’t do anything reckless, do you hear me? Let the police handle this, Dean.”

Dean replies, “Sure. Right.” He hangs up before Victor can say anything else, and reports to Jess and Cas, “Ruby’s been busted out in the crap part of town. I say we pack up and see if we can track her down and get Sam home safe.”

Castiel presses a thermos of coffee into Dean’s hands, and Jess pipes up, “I think I might know where they are.”

Dean gives her a nod, and not five minutes later the three of them load into the Impala, coffee in hand and determination underfoot.  

**X**

The ropes chafe Sam’s wrists as he struggles against them. His head is still cloudy from drinking earlier, something he wishes now that he hadn’t decided to do. Around him, the room is cold. They’re in some warehouse off in buttfuck nowhere, whose windows are broken and ceiling is leaking. Graffiti litters the walls where plaster crumbles away.

He’s freezing his ass off, but at least the chill is something to concentrate that isn’t the burn of his body. Sam’s t-shirt is stained with red at his abdomen. He’s okay; he knows that, but just because the cuts are superficial doesn’t mean that they don’t hurt like a son of a gun. He knows his wrists must be bruised by now from struggling.

Dean will come. He has to. There’s no way that Dean would just _not notice_ that Sam is MIA.

Again, Sam wriggles and tries to extract his wrists, but whatever knot job Ruby’s done on his wrists is air-tight and solid. There’s no way of getting out, not with his ankles tied up against the legs of a chair and his wrists yanked behind him and bound.

God, everything hurts. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and breathes against the thrum of pain, but the echo of footsteps jerks him right back into reality.

Ruby’s back. She has her knife in her hand still, and that weird, wide-eyed look on her face like Sam has never seen before. He never would have pegged Ruby as the psycho after the kids in town. Either she’s a damn good actor or she’s just plain off the reservation. Sam still can’t tell which.

All night they’ve been at this game. It’s cat and mouse. Mostly, Ruby just talks for Sam like he isn’t there, like he’s some kind of doll and this is playtime. When something Sam says finally penetrates her thick skull, she’ll pause. He gets cut up anyway, but at least it’s slower. At least he can draw this game out.

All he’s got left in his back pocket is stalling her. If Dean or the cops or somebody doesn’t get here soon, he’s going to die. A shiver shoots through his body at the thought, fear like ice spreading from the cold sweat at the back of Sam’s neck to the tips of his fingers where they’re losing circulation behind his back.

Sam swallows the lump in his throat and tries to think fast, but all that comes out is a hoarse demand of, “What are you doing?” He resists adding ‘also, what the hell is wrong with you?’, because he’ll do anything to avoid pissing her off.

“Playing,” she says, voice all slick, like oil.

“Why?” Sam manages. He tries not to sound as scared out of his mind as he is. This is fun to her, but he doesn’t get it. It should be simple enough to slap a “crazy” label on her and call it a day, but he can’t do it. He has to know where the Ruby he knew at school begins and this doe-eyed one begins.

“I never got to play when I was little, you know,” Ruby says, taking a step closer to him. He only just manages to hold back a wince. He swallows again. She doesn’t sound done, so Sam doesn’t say anything just yet. He can wait this out. Let her monologue. Something like that. Only that’s something that villains do in books and movies, not in real life. He thinks. He’s not sure.

A lot of cats like to play with their prey. Sam can only hope that Ruby’s up for some more.

His life can’t be over yet. He and Dean just got cut a break. Dean has Cas and they’re all happy and stuff, and Sam has (or had, he thinks sadly) Jess. He doesn’t even know if he got accepted to Stanford yet.

“I didn’t have many toys,” she goes on, “I always envied girls like Jessica, you know? They had it all. Cute little outfits and Barbie sneakers and dollhouses and all that crap. Me? I live in a shitty mobile home that smells like vomit. Six years old, and I’m cleaning up after my deadbeat dad when he drinks too much.”

“My dad drank a lot too,” Sam blurts, “I mean. Shit. I’m not, like. Um. Saying I understand or anything, ‘cause I don’t, really. But I bet my brother would get it. Dean, h-he – he always had to do stuff like that for our dad. When he was alive, anyway.”

Ruby narrows her eyes at him, assessing. A smile twists her face, thorny and unsettling. She says, “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? But I bet you anything your dumbass brother doesn’t know a fucking _thing_ about what it’s like to be me.”

Sam opens his mouth, but Ruby silences him by stepping right into his space and placing her knife against his lips. His breath condenses on the metal, and Sam tries not to hyperventilate.

“Maybe your dad was a deadbeat too, but I’d bet you anything that he wasn’t into getting off on his own kid.”

The bottom drops out of Sam’s stomach. There are a million things on the tip of his tongue, apologies to Ruby because she didn’t deserve that, because nobody deserves it, and maybe she could still have a halfway decent life if she got some help.

Ruby tilts her head and presses the blade into Sam’s skin just a fraction more. It’s not enough to spill more blood, but enough for the pressure to start to sting. He wonders how much more he can bleed before he can’t stay awake anymore. Before he passes out.

Before he dies.

“Don’t give me any of that Prince Charming bullshit about how sorry you must be for me,” Ruby goes on, “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

With that she lifts away the knife, and Sam breathes out a skein of relief. Ruby isn’t done talking, though. She says, “But I’m okay now. I have lots of toys. All the dolls I ever wanted. Pretty boys and girls like I always dreamed of. You’re kind of like my own little Ken doll, aren’t you? Maybe I should give you the same parts.” At that Ruby drops the blade against the crotch of Sam’s jeans and he jumps, face red.

And then: “Nah. I just wanna truss you up and put you on display someplace nice. Maybe your brother’s boyfriend’s porch? It’ll be the perfect end to the story. The wrongly accused golden boy ends up dead himself, all carved up and gorgeous.”

Ruby rests her knife against Sam’s throat, right beside his fluttering pulse.

“Ruby, you don’t have to do this,” Sam tries desperately. This is it, isn’t it? This is the end. He feels tears start to burn in his eyes as he starts to plead, “Come on. If you let me go now, I won’t tell anyone it was you. I can say I don’t know who it was, and the police’ll never know.”

Ruby’s eyebrows sweep together, and then her lips part as she lets out a loud, full-bodied laugh. The noise echoes off of the dilapidated walls and rings in Sam’s ears. He doesn’t know what he said wrong, unless begging for his life is the subject of her amusement.

“I’m not Ruby,” she says, when her laughter dies down, “I’m Lilith.”

“ _Who_?”

“Lilith, you moron. I’m Ruby’s big sister. Daddy didn’t do right by Ruby, so she found me. I help Ruby. I’m giving her the childhood she never had. She’s having so much fun playing with her new doll.”

Thoughts flick through Sam’s mind like flashcards. If Ruby has another personality – that would explain why she doesn’t remember killing people. Why she threw everyone off. Why Sam believed so ardently that it had to be somebody else.

And, he guesses, in a way, it is somebody else. This _isn’t_ Ruby. This is Lilith.

Before Sam can think of another way to stall her, Ruby – Lilith – has her knife on his cheek. She slices across his face and he cries out. Hot blood runs down his face and he tastes it, stale and metallic. It makes his stomach churn, reminds him that he hasn’t had anything to eat for hours and hours and the only thing that’ll be in his stomach when he dies is his own blood.

Lilith chuckles and says, “I chose all of our toys because they were pretty. The kind of people you see in catalogues. Those are the kind of dolls that Ruby always wanted. I wanted them too. It would have been nice to play pretend, but we never got to. And you,” – she grins – “We were saving you for a rainy day. First time Ruby laid eyes on you, she wanted you. You got your pretty boy hair and those puppy dog eyes. Perfect.”

Lilith lowers the blade to Sam’s chest and cuts through the cotton, penetrating through his skin. Sam shouts, the tears in the back of his eyes spilling over as _pain pain pain_ radiates throughout his entire body. She doesn’t do it quick, instead Lilith drags the knife across him like a caress. When she lifts the knife away Sam’s tears come harder, this time from relief, though the feeling is short-lived. Ruby slashes across his chest in the other direction until a bright red X blooms through the fabric of his shirt.

“Making your toys pretty is no fun if you can’t play a little first,” she says. Her wide eyes gleam.

**X**

“Please don’t hate me,” Jess starts as the car roars down the road, “but I may or may not have bought some pot from Ruby out here. She doesn’t like to deal out of her house – she deals out of this gross old factory instead. The thing’s a fucking eyesore. I think. Um. The address is 2508 Windmill Way? I think?”

“Thank you,” Cas says from beside Dean, and Dean is glad that his dude can muster up some words, because Dean’s got nothing. He needs to get to Sam, and fucking Windmill Way is too damn far for comfort. There’s terror in his veins, shadows telling him that he’s too late already and that his little brother is dead.

But Sam can’t be dead. Dean won’t let that happen.

Suburbs melt away and the buildings become older, sadder. They’re only minutes into the gray part of Sioux Falls when Jess points from the backseat and exclaims, “There! That’s the place.”

Dean slams on the brakes and the Impala screeches to a halt around them all. He doesn’t even think before he moves, just wrenches the keys from the ignition and throws them at Cas. He books it to the front gate of the place, chainlink. The chains wrapped around the entrance are loose, brown with rust and disuse. The padlock meant to hold the gate closed is open, not unlocked, but cut cleanly.

Dean bends and pulls his knife from the inside of his boot before he shoves the gate apart and starts to run to the front entrance. He hears Cas shout something from behind him but it’s like he’s underwater and Cas’ voice is just blur of sound. The front entrance the factory – warehouse – whatever the fuck this sorry place is – is agape.

God, Dean hopes that’s a good sign. If Sam isn’t here, he’s as good as gone. He knows how fast kids die after they disappear.

“Slow down!” he hears behind him, “Don’t go in alone.” Heavy footfalls sound behind him but Dean doesn’t stop to wait for Castiel and Jess, just keeps going.

The great hollowness of the joint is what brings him down. Unused, neglected machinery from another time sits still and broken around him, the concrete floor covered in dirt and debris. The fall of his boots against the ground is far too loud, the sound coming back to him in huge, billowing echoes.

There’s no Sam in sight. There are no people at all, actually. Just quiet.

Until a strangled yelp crashes through the silence.

Dean reacts immediately, feet carrying him toward the sound. He yells, “Sam! Sammy, is that you?”

There’s no response. Dean hopes to God that that doesn’t mean what he thinks it does. He reaches the back of the factory and pounds up a set of metal stairs. It shakes underneath his weight, groaning in complaint, but he doesn’t stop. His heart beats faster.

He starts throwing open doors. One by one, Dean slams into empty room after empty room, coming across nothing but old, busted furniture and forgotten scraps of paperwork. His lungs burn from the effort and probably a heap of fucking asbestos, but Dean keeps going.

The second to last door swings open to reveal his prize. Sam is bleeding and tied down, and that psycho chick is right in front of him, a knife in her hand pressing into Sam’s torso.

“Hey, fuckface,” Dean snaps, and charges at her.

Ruby pulls the knife away from his brother and turns it on Dean. She doesn’t back down, but stabs right at him. The blade grazes Dean’s arm and blood begins to leak. He doesn’t care. He goes for her, but the broad is scrappy. She’s stronger than she looks, and her left hook nails him right in the jaw.

“You stay the fuck away from my brother,” growls Dean, and tackles her to the ground.

Behind him, Dean hears the sound of Cas and Jess, but doesn’t register what they’re saying. He just struggles on the ground with Ruby, his own knife forgotten feet away from them. He shoves her down but Ruby manages to nick Dean just below the collarbone.

There’s no other way to get the knife out of her hand if he doesn’t grab it by the blade. Dean releases her shoulder and closes his fist around the knife and yanks. He feels it cut deep into his hand, right down close to the bone and grunts pain, but doesn’t stop pulling until it’s free from her grasp and covered in his blood. Dean flings the knife across the floor, as far away as he can make it go, and wrestles Ruby into a standing position. The blood on Dean’s hand makes his grip slippery, and the chick keeps kicking at his shins, but he manages to get her in a bind that she can’t wriggle out of, no matter how much she kicks her feet at him.

“Let me go,” she hisses, “I’m not done playing with my toy. He’s mine and you can’t take him away from me!”

As though on cue, a burst of blue fills the room and uniformed cops flood the area. Dean barely registers Ruby being taken from his grasp, just watches as a cop slaps handcuffs onto her. It takes two guys to escort her out while she shouts and thrashes, and Dean can only stand and pant in place.

Victor Henriksen enters the shabby space seconds after Ruby vanishes from it. His eyes flick to Dean’s hand, and then to where Sam stands wilting between Jess and Cas. He heaves a sigh and says, “Damn it, Winchester. I told you not to do anything stupid.”

**X**

Dean needs stitches in his hand. He tries not to look while the doc sews him up, but when he turns his head what he sees instead of his own gory hand is his little brother hooked up with tubes of oxygen stuck in his nostrils and a bag of blood being fed to him through his arm.

But he’s awake.

Sam catches Dean’s eye and tries to smile, but it’s clear that he’s still in pain.

“You’ll hook him up with some pain meds, right?” Dean asks the doctor working on his hand.

“I am certain that your brother will be given a prescription to help ease the pain, yes. He’ll be needing some stitches of his own for certain.”

“Hear that, Sammy? They’ll be giving you the good stuff.”

“Yeah, they better,” Sam rasps, “I feel like I’m in freaking Alien right now, guts everywhere and all that crap.”

It takes a solid forty-five minutes for Dean and Sam to get pieced back together, both stitched up like ragdolls with meds in their systems. Dean’s got a handle on his mouth, but Sam is way past gone. He’s got a goofy smile on his face that only gets goofier when Jess comes into the room (followed by Castiel, but Dean is pretty sure that he’s the one more excited to see Cas).

“I am so sorry, Sam. I should have believed you,” Jess says, flying to his side. She makes as if to throw her arms around him but withdraws as she sees the state he’s in. Instead, she grips his hand in hers and murmurs, “Christ. You’re a mess.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, “You’re…not a mess. You’re super beautiful. Shit.”

Jess manages a laugh, though it’s strained by concern.

Sam bounces his eyebrows and says, “Kiss it better?”

Dean laughs at that, but keeps it quiet and turns away. He smiles up at Cas and finds his man smiling right back at him, pretty baby blues looking even prettier than usual. Or maybe that’s the pain medication.

“My brother is such a friggin’ ham,” Dean says, and glances over to see Sam and Jess with their lips locked together. He adds, “But hey, it looks like it works.” Dean shoots his best bedroom eyes at Cas and echoes his own brother, “How about I get a kiss better?”

Castiel rolls his eyes but shifts forward to comply nonetheless. His lips taste like peppermint chapstick, tasty enough that Dean manages to slip some tongue for a second before Cas smacks his shoulder.

“ _Ow._ I am wounded, you dick,” Dean says.

“You can’t take advantage of me in a hospital,” Cas responds, “I have standards.”

Dean lifts his body up just enough to peck a more chaste kiss to Cas’ mouth before he lies back again. He says, “Fine. But I expect to take full advantage of you when we get home. Or you can take advantage of me. Either way, we’re naked and it’s fun.”

Cas’ lips turn up again. He runs his fingers through Dean’s hair and says, “You’re amusing when you’re on strong medication.”

“You’re amusing when – shut up. Don’t look at me like that,” Dean says.

Beside them, Sam and Jess speak quietly, all shy smiles even though Dean knows exactly what those two get up to when no one’s looking. He breathes out and says to Cas, “Y’know, minus almost being murdered and all, maybe Sioux Falls isn’t so bad after all.”


	11. When We Made It

**End Credits: Sweet Sun – Milky Chance**

**_When We Made It_ **

“Oh, come on,” Sam groans.

Dean grunts and shifts to see his younger brother in the doorway to his and Cas’ bedroom. It takes a minute to register that Sam is covering his eyes, and may be doing so because at some point in the night either he or Cas kicked the blankets off of the bed and are bare-assed naked on the bed.

“Ha, whoops,” Dean says, and reaches down to the bottom of the mattress to pull the top sheet up enough to preserve his and Cas’ modesty. The remains of it, anyway. He says, “All right, Sammy. You’re all good.”

“No I’m not. I need a way to permanently erase that from my mind.”

“Quit whining. You’ve seen my ass before. What the hell time is it, anyway?” Dean rakes his fingers through his already mussed hair.

“It’s almost noon,” Sam complains. Beside Dean, Cas lets out a contented, sleepy snore and moves draws in closer to Dean’s body heat. At the movement, Sam wrinkles his nose and says, “Ugh, can’t you guys keep it in your pants for like five seconds? You said we’d be shopping for college stuff today.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean says, “Give us a sec and we’ll be out. Ah – shit, Daisy!”

Daisy leaps up onto the bed, standing directly on Cas’ chest, and licks Dean’s face enthusiastically. She wags her tail, and when Castiel groans beneath her weight, she plops down on her ass, tongue lolling. Dean smears a hand over his face before he gives Daisy a scratch behind her ears and says, “Sam, make yourself useful and start some coffee or something. I’ve gotta roll Cas outta bed.”

Sam rolls his eyes but turns to obey. At his exit, Daisy leaps off of Cas’ chest and follows Sam out to the kitchen, tail waving behind her and tags jingling on her neck.

“Hey, you,” Dean says. He snuggles down tight under the sheet and presses his body to Castiel’s.

“M’sleeping. Go away.”

“Nope,” Dean says, pulling Castiel’s face from the pillow so that he can plant a kiss to his lips. He smooths Cas’ wayward hair from his face and reminds him, “We promised Sam we’d help him get crap for his dorm today, remember?”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier for him to shop for all that in Palo Alto?” Castiel mutters.

Dean replies, “Maybe. But it’s something he wants to do with us. He can worry about the big stuff in California, but it’ll help if we get the little stuff out of the way. Plus I don’t even know what you need in a dorm. You do. So you’re required to come, no exceptions.”

Cas makes a whining noise into the pillows but sits up. His hair stands straight up and the shadows under his eyes are deep. He gives Dean a look that’s probably meant to be menacing, but instead just makes him look like a grumpy bear cub that needs a hug. Dean leans over and kisses the frown off of his face, with no mind to the morning breath.

With a little more prodding, Cas eventually does leave the bed, though he doesn’t bother to dress in anything but underwear off of the bedroom floor before he stumbles out into the kitchen, where Sam has a pot of coffee brewed and Daisy is chewing on a frayed rope toy.

“Those are Dean’s, aren’t they.” Sam flatly states, eyes flicking down to the boxer-briefs hugging Castiel’s hips. They are patterned in bananas, and definitely belong to Dean. Or did at some point. Sometimes his and Cas’ stuff is interchangeable.

“I suppose they are,” Cas responds, glancing down at the offending underwear.

Sam looks like he wants to say something else, but instead just mimes gagging, something that leads Dean to point at his brother and say, “Exactly.”

“Ew. Dean!”

“Like your mouth is genitalia free,” Dean shoots back.

Cas takes a sip from his coffee mug and adds, “And I’ll have you know that Dean never gags.”

Sam throws his hands up in the air and says, “I’m done with you two until you get your caffeine and think about what you’ve done.”

Even after coffee, they bicker, ribbing each other in the Impala all the way from the house to the nearby Target. Sam pretends to be embarrassed when Dean rides one of the plastic red carts into the store and cruises toward the home goods aisles, where colorful advertisements decree that college students have everything they need right there. Dean would argue that Target does not happen to have Sam’s expensive-ass textbooks.

“I think you’ll probably want an electric kettle,” Castiel says, absently plucking one up from its display in a row of kitchen gadgets, “You like tea.”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t I have, like, a minifridge or something?” asks Sam.

Castiel hums, “Depends on what you plan on eating.”

“Not ramen?” Sam ventures.

Castiel laughs. He says, “Yeah, we should probably get you an electric kettle.”

Sam sighs as Dean puts the box in the cart, as though eating ramen is somehow below him – though Dean can’t fault him for being tired of it, ramen is kind of a college staple. Or so he hears. They tread through the aisles at a steady pace, debating the necessities.

“Do you really need that?” asks Dean, narrowing his eyes, “What does it even do?”

“It’s a shower caddy, and yes, I need it,” Sam says, “My dorm doesn’t have individual bathrooms.”

“Okay, but what is this?”

“A loofah.”

“What the hell is a loofah?”

“It’s a bath sponge, Dean. Just put it in the cart.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but shrugs and concedes, “If you say so.”

The outing has them all smiling and laughing. Happiness is a nice look on Sam. The last months of school weren’t exactly a picnic for him, despite having half the student body personally apologize to him for being as douchey as they were. Dean was released from the hospital almost immediately after their final death-match with Ruby. Or Lilith. Or whomever. Sam, however, stayed several days to recuperate from the shitstorm that he’d gone through.

Discomfort still makes Dean feel like he’s going to hurl when he thinks about his brother being tied to a chair and tortured for _hours_ , but he tries to temper that by remembering that it’s all over now. Sam is home and the town seems to have forgotten already the way that they treated Sam Winchester.

Sam still has scars, though, both physical and internal. A huge X is slashed across his chest, puckered pink and surrounded by smaller, similar scars. He doesn’t talk about them, and shuts down when Dean tries to bring it up. Sometimes Sam gets ghost pains on his chest. Sometimes he drops things. Sometimes a glimmer of pain glances across his face while the three of them (and sometimes Jess) are on the couch with pizza, watching TV.

But Sam is smiling now, and that’s valuable. It’s not nothing for Dean to hear his brother laugh, to see him happy in their new place. Not so new now, he supposes. And it’ll be strange next month when they drive Sam to Palo Alto with a trailer hitched to the Impala with Sam’s things, ready to move into a dorm room.

After the Target excursion, the three of them go out for burgers.

Cas nudges Dean halfway through the meal with his elbow and asks, “What’s on your mind? You’ve been quiet for almost forty-five minutes.”

“Eh, just thinking about Sam,” Dean says, “I’m gonna miss the kid.”

“I know you will,” Cas replies, “I will too. But then we’ll also have the house to ourselves.” He winks.

Dean laughs and tugs Cas in for a side hug. He says, “Yeah, that’s a definite plus.”

Man, to think that when they moved here that Dean was miserable, Sam was perpetually pissed off, and Cas was some weirdo that got nervous about strippers and later came to The Love Club to just talk to Dean. Well. Cas is still a weirdo. And he still comes to The Love Club just to talk to Dean sometimes. The only difference is that Dean doesn’t make Cas nervous anymore, even if he is wearing nothing but a g-string and combat boots.

A waitress comes to clear some of the clutter on their table away, and the game on the TVs in the restaurant fades into the news.

“ _The Waites trial has again been delayed as…_ ”

Dean doesn’t even bother listening to that. He’s okay with where Ruby is. They put her up in a mental institution under strict lockdown. He’s pretty sure that’s where she’s gonna get kept, because an insanity plea is 100% reasonable. He almost feels bad for the chick, except she carved his little brother up like a Christmas ham, so he kind of doesn’t feel bad at all.

“I’m gonna use the restroom,” Sam says. He leaves his napkin on the table.

“You think it’s a good idea for the kid and his girlfriend to go to the same school?” Dean asks Cas.

Castiel shrugs his shoulders and says, “I don’t know. They’re young, but everyone’s different. And they’re not in a dorm together. Sam and Jess are both sharp. I think that they’ll be okay, no matter what happens. And you will too, by the way. I know it’s going to take some getting used to to not have Sam around to take care of, but you will be just fine.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Dean says, and takes a pull from his beer. He turns to Cas, who has that idiot loving expression on his face. He can’t help but lean over and plant a kiss right on Cas’ lips, and even if he does taste like hamburger, Dean lingers. He says, “Hey, I love you.”

Castiel smiles and turns his head to kiss Dean back. He breaks away only to say right against the shell of Dean’s ear, “I love you too. Most of the time.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, my God,” groans Sam, “Can you two behave yourselves in public for like, two seconds?”

“No,” Dean answers, at the same time that Cas says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ugh,” Sam says, “You guys suck.”

“That’s the idea,” Dean shoots back.

A noise of frustration tears out of Sam and Dean cackles. Yeah, all right, shit’s not perfect. But hey, things are better than they’ve been in a hell of a long time, and Dean’s pretty sure the times’ll keep being good.

Dean catches Cas’ eye and thinks, _maybe things’ll be good forever_.

**_Fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me through this fic. I hope that even though it is shorter than my other long fics that it's still something that you enjoyed. I did have fun writing it, even if it took nine entire months to finish. Whoops! Your support is one of the main reasons that this is complete. I didn't want to disappoint the people that have lifted me up. <3


End file.
